


A View for the Future

by theangrywarlock



Series: View [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 03:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theangrywarlock/pseuds/theangrywarlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the 1832 barricades and his torture at the hands of the National Guard, Enjolras can slowly begin to recover. There are severe pitfalls along the way, from his friends' reactions to his finding a foothold within this new world. Each chapter gives the viewpoint of a different Ami.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't meant to be an easy fic to read. The end, at least, will be Enjolras/Grantaire. So for those reading solely for that, please be patient.

**Combeferre**

August 6, 1832,

It has been precisely one month since our victory. The now deposed king has gone on to relatives in England. Committees are still being elected from the provinces. They will serve-

Combeferre paused in his writings. He had little desire to continue the senseless ramble of words. He knew what had happened. He lived through it. The notes he needed to take weren't supposed to be on the obvious matter of France's timeline but on what to do next.

He sat in his chair, feeling useless, while Enjolras stood behind him, looking out the window.

It had been a month and Combeferre couldn't bring himself to revel in their victory. He had tried. He attended victory celebrations, found himself smiling at the cobbled together jokes, had even drank champagne with the rest of the now free revolutionaries. But his friend's absence in their revelry clung to him like an old, tattered cloak, bringing down his mood until he had ended up in a wholly pensive way of being that brought down the rest of the party-goers, particularly if they were Amis.

He removed his glasses and rubbed his face.

"I am being unhelpful."

Enjolras' voice, now no longer so ragged, so pained, broke through Combeferre's thoughts. Combeferre hastened to replace his glasses. "No, it's not you." He flipped through his note on his previous sessions with Enjolras.

'He isn't eating.'

'He isn't sleeping.'

'Injuries are healing. So much scar tissue.'

And yet very little on Enjolras' mindset. Everything Combeferre could record, he did so, the physical changes as bright as daylight. But in the depths of Enjolras' soul, Combeferre couldn't even begin to guess. Once they had been so close, able to communicate so well. Now, things had changed.

Enjolras had changed, if Combeferre was to be perfectly honest. Enjolras was withdrawing, purposely putting up a distance between himself and the others. Combeferre knew his friend wasn't seeking solace. The distance was laden with shame and apprehension. There was a hesitation whenever Enjolras chose to touch Combeferre. Whenever Combeferre could convince Enjolras to leave his flat, they walked with a few steps in-between them. There were times when Enjolras was speaking that he stumbled upon a word and dismissed it, weighing his thoughts with more precision than he had done previously. Not that Enjolras was ever careless around him, but he was always less guarded, less reserved.

Combeferre felt, perhaps, like the others. Held at arm's length and never any closer.

Worse still, this wasn't an unconscious choice Enjolras was making. This wasn't even due to instinct or fear. This was deliberate and it made Combeferre ache not just from the distance, but because he understood why Enjolras was doing so.

It had nothing to do with trust and everything to do with what Combeferre had seen.

He understood the matter of shame. Of being so exposed to others. Of being nearly ritualistically tormented, beaten, and made to suffer a fate far worse than death. What had happened to Enjolras was not noble. It was a cruelty that Combeferre could not comprehend on the part of his attackers. Whatever had caused that regime to act in such a way, Combeferre couldn't even guess. He was simply left with the remains.

"I'm trying to get my thoughts together," Combeferre said to fill in the silence, his pen still held above the paper, the ink drying. He could envision Enjolras shutting his eyes, wishing that the two of them were anywhere else but here, trying to find solace in the darkness and pushing away of reality both from the window and from inside his flat. Combeferre's grip on the pen tightened. "I should redo the bandages."

There was an inhalation of air as Enjolras took in Combeferre's words, knowing their pragmatism and trying not to give in to the slight tremble that the words entailed. That was an unconscious movement of his body that he hadn't been able to bring under his command.

"As you wish."

They departed for the bedroom and Combeferre helped his friend strip off his shirt. While they were in the privacy of his flat, Enjolras wore loose clothing so as not to put undue pressure on his skin.

Combeferre bid him sit down and made sure to keep his expression carefully neutral. When he had first treated Enjolras, his friend hadn't moved a muscle, not in body, not in face. Combeferre had prayed he hadn't been in shock, but the reality was harder to bear. Enjolras simply did not care.

He would let Combeferre tend to his scars, to his wounds, to the burns and the welts. He would let Combeferre run a clinical hand down his back, then to gently spread his legs in order to assess the damage below. He didn't even bother turning his head away, content to merely stare up at the ceiling while Combeferre did his work.

After all, Combeferre had already seen everything. What use was there in hiding? What point was there at all in dignity and pride? It was ripped out from him in the span of one night, and somehow their victory made it all the worse. Each month that passed, on the day of his violation, the people would celebrate. They would remember the barricades, the mobs of people, the chants, the songs, the gunsmoke. Whereas all Enjolras could remember was the feeling of penetration, of fire, of the hands around his throat, and that sudden instant of his body's ultimate betrayal of himself.

He hated the loud noises most of all. There was the feeling of helplessness, the same feeling he got as Combeferre cut away his bandages to inspect the still healing flesh.

The word that had been carved on him was still there. A fact which Enjolras brought to Combeferre's attention. The unusual fact of Enjolras speaking to him made Combeferre look up. "Did you expect it to be gone?"

"I dreamed last night of the days before it all. That I looked how I did."

Enjolras was not one to put stock in his appearance. Combeferre thought that his words went deeper than something so shallow as unmarred flesh.

"Hand me a mirror, please."

Combeferre didn't think this was the best idea. He would have refused had Enjolras' tone been a bit more wavering, just a touch more afraid. As it was, it was the same tone in which he ordered more guns, more phamphlets, more audacity, more people to fill in the holes of the barricade. It was a voice that could still command and Combeferre would do anything right now to indulge that part of Enjolras, even if it meant going onto another damn barricade.

He rushed out of the room and returned a few short seconds later with a small hand mirror he retrieved from the bathroom. "I didn't know you owned one."

"Courfeyrac must have left it here," Enjolras said, long fingers taking hold of the mirror and moving it up so that he could see the damage done to him.

"Courfeyrac was here?" Combeferre rebuked himself immediately for the question. Of course Courfeyrac would come by. He was their friend and had been more worried about Enjolras than perhaps even Combeferre had been, and yet…

And yet the fact that Enjolras had not only let him inside, had possibly spoken to him, and made Courfeyrac comfortable enough to accidentally leave a personal item in the bathroom when Combeferre had to strain to get words out of his friend left him a bit cold.

"He was asking about classes. I believe I will attend."

Combeferre took out a bit of ointment for the scars. "You don't think it's too soon?"

"I have no problems sitting anymore." The bluntness in Enjolras' tone nearly made Combeferre utterly despondent. "There is no reason to not pursue a degree so I can finish with school, sit for the bar, and be on my way."

Combeferre saw the sense in this, but the strain in Enjolras' voice was showing and he made to take away the mirror.

"Don't."

Combeferre stopped at once, his hand still reaching out. Far as he knew, Enjolras had never looked down at himself, never chose to see the discoloration of the bruises and marks upon his skin. He had tried to never acknowledge the discomfort of the wounds, either on his chest or elsewhere. Combeferre was of plenty minds about this, but he kept his theories to himself and tended to Enjolras however he could. Now, Enjolras staring at the mirror with something akin to puzzlement.

"What is it?" Combeferre couldn't resist asking, abandoning his idea to just wait for Enjolras to explain to him when he felt ready.

"I don't remember."

"Remember what?"

Enjolras finally moved the mirror down. "What I looked like before this. Was my skin perfect? Was there a beauty mark? Was there the usual dusting of hair on this section? Things like that, Combeferre. Now it's just this."

There was no self-pity in his voice. Enjolras never had the time for such things. There was a detachment instead that worried Combeferre.

"You were beautiful. You are beautiful," he said, as though that would make Enjolras feel better. It didn't. Combeferre couldn't even bring himself to feel the impact of the words. They felt shallow, as though Enjolras was speaking on another plane of existence and he was still stuck having to tell him that yes, he looked beautiful and that was all he was allowed.

Once, they had conversations aplenty about the metaphorical and how to make it literal. Their discussions could have stood the test of time as they used the knowledge that both held to their strengths. Enjolras would speak of history and despots. Combeferre would speak of significant events and fact. Enjolras would utilize Combeferre's knack for detail in comparing the monarchies of old while adopting the adage for absolute power. Combeferre would would add to his friend's strengths by granting him knowledge on the homefront situation. They would spend hours, speaking as though they were one person, merely split in two.

This was yet another way in which Combeferre felt left behind, struggling to figure out which peak Enjolras was on so that he could somehow retrieve him or stand with him if aiding him wasn't an option.

Enjolras handed him back the mirror. Combeferre took hold of it, his fingers turning it over in the palm of his hand.

"Beautiful then and now," Enjolras repeated. "Thank you." He smiled but it wasn't genuine. It barely reached his eyes and it was gone before Combeferre could even fully register it.

In a fit of panic and desperation, Combeferre set to undoing the buttons of his waistcoat. His plan was hatched on impulse instead of being cultivated over time. He so rarely acted in such a manner, but he felt a sickly hand of terror working its way through his gut. He feared losing Enjolras in a completely different manner.

Enjolras watched Combeferre as the waistcoat fell to the floor and the buttons of his shirt were worked upon next. He did not ask what this was about, and Combeferre hoped he would understand.

"This," Combeferre said, standing before Enjolras now bare-chested, his shirt on the floor. "This is what you looked like before."

For a long time, Enjolras merely stared at his friend. Combeferre dared not waver or fidget. He stood, almost proudly, feeling that something even beyond his friendship with Enjolras was at stake here.

And then Enjolras was reaching for him and still Combeferre stood, letting the slender digits of his friend's hand touch his chest, moving along his sides and almost tickling him with feather-light touches and strokes.

"Like this?" Enjolras asked, his hand moving down Combeferre's unmarked chest to his stomach. Combeferre did not look as though he was sculpted from marble, but he was strong and limber. Jehan would have made more of an Enjolras-esque statue, but Jehan wasn't here and Combeferre wouldn't have let just anyone do this with Enjolras, especially not now.

"Like this," he confirmed, swallowing the urge to touch Enjolras' hand, to entwine their fingers together and show him that he was not leaving, that he could never leave.

Enjolras slowly pulled his hand back and allowed Combeferre to re-bandage his chest after the ointment had been applied. There was a bit of a relaxation to his shoulders that hadn't been there before, and Combeferre couldn't help but think that they had made progress.

He would strip naked and tend to Enjolras that way if he thought it could help, but Enjolras seemed fine enough with Combeferre minus a shirt. All the same, once Combeferre had finished helping Enjolras dress, he nodded at the garments on his floor.

"Your display was admirable," was all he said, but the tone he used was lighter than before and Combeferre's heart lifted.

He took no notes that day on the status of his friend, but he left Enjolras' flat feeling better than any time previous.


	2. Chapter Two

**Courfeyrac**

Enjolras returning to class was fairly unexpected. The man had said that he would, but Combeferre had thought it would be too early, and Enjolras tended to listen to Combeferre’s instructions.

Not that Enjolras had spoken to Courfeyrac about such things. Combeferre had informed him himself that he thought Enjolras going out would be too risky.

“I can barely get him outside to get food for himself,” Combeferre said, trying to get more information out of Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac couldn’t blame him for the tactic, sneaky though it was. The others were dying to hear some sort of news about their recovering friend, and Courfeyrac had been usually quiet about the entire ordeal. He joked with them a little, telling them that no news was good news, but he said no more on the matter. It hurt them, he knew, but he wouldn’t betray Enjolras’ confidence.

That and there wasn’t much information to even go by. Enjolras was, for the most part, silent whenever Courfeyrac visited.

The first time he came, he had thought Enjolras would make a polite excuse before shutting the door. He was delighted when the door was further opened, allowing him entry. He filled up the empty minutes by speaking to Enjolras about the goings-on in the world. Combeferre brought his friend newspapers, but Courfeyrac was adept at bringing him emotions. They ran the gamut of scared of another Terror to relief at being able to form their own councils.

Enjolras, for his part, took in the news, remaining stoic. Sometimes sitting upon the couch or standing by the window. After that, Courfeyrac had insisted on bringing him food, small treats here and there that he picked up along the way to Enjolras’ flat. He was certain Combeferre wouldn’t let Enjolras starve, but Courfeyrac’s motives were slightly more selfish. He couldn’t stand the silence, and letting Enjolras eat was giving his friend something more to do with his time while permitting Courfeyrac a break between topics so he could turn to another subject at hand.

The silence brought to mind things Courfeyrac desired to keep down as well. He wished to say that he was all there for his friend, but a part of him had been left behind on the barricade that night. Until that time, he had never truly seen evil. He had heard about various cruel sports from others, things that diverged from mocking the less fortunate to the plight of women, even to those whose virtue had been besmirched. But he had never seen it happen to anyone and never knew anyone who had it done to them.

What he saw that night was more than just a violation. It had been a severe abuse, one that branded a person’s psyche along with their soul. It reminded Courfeyrac that the humanity they so yearned to raise did always treat them with kindness, or even civility. A brawl was one thing. Vicious verbal assaults were another, and sometimes they came at the same time when dealing with people of differing political views and means of expressing them.

But what happened to Enjolras was another matter entirely and well out of Courfeyrac’s range. He spoke because he did not know what to say. He fidgeted because he didn’t know where to put his hands. He smiled because crying wouldn’t help anyone, least of all Enjolras, and he feared the flinch of his friend if he got up and started ranting about the lunacy of that night and his hatred toward those that were now dead, and even though he had been the second one to fire his gun at those men, he wished they were alive so he could do it over again.

That was a harsh realization for him to come to as he believed fully in granting people chances and the richness of life. All deserved at least one shot at happiness. All of humanity was to be uplifted. They fought and died for such an ideal. They engaged in subversive activities that would have them arrested. They risked their own lives for an unknown person down the road so that unknown could lead a full life.

Courfeyrac wouldn’t hesitate in putting another bullet into the heads of those who had laid hands on Enjolras, and yet he wasn’t sure he was in the wrong for thinking this way.

His smile had long since grown cold, his muscles weary of his falseness, and he toyed with his thumbs as his gaze went downward. His thoughts drifted back to that night and the last of his pseudo-cheer was spent. All he could think about was what he had seen behind his rifle, and armed though he had been, he was still helpless to prevent the brutal attack upon his friend. Even now, he failed in holding Enjolras’ attention. Even in the wake of the onslaught, without any opponents around them, without a barricade serving as an obstacle, he was at a loss for aiding his friend.

He knew Enjolras was not without his barriers and defenses, but Courfeyrac scaled them on a nearly daily basis. They were simply metaphorical landmarks that he hopped over in his careless fashion, entreating his friend to things Enjolras normally would never indulge in, or getting close to his friend to whisper in his ear, while slinging an arm about his person, treating him as he would treat anyone else. With him, Enjolras was no marble statue but a close, dear friend.

And now, he hadn’t dared touch Enjolras since that night. He didn’t fear the rejection. He feared making the situation worse.

Courfeyrac’s breathing hitched when Enjolras’ hands came down over his own. He hadn’t even noticed the blond move away from the window, but suddenly there he was, looking down at Courfeyrac with an expression of mild concern.

Words sprang to Courfeyrac’s mind and he found himself ready with a defense, not for himself but for Enjolras. ‘No,’ he thought, ‘you are not the problem. You are not worrying me. Well, you are, but not like how you’re probably thinking.’ They were clumsy words and Courfeyrac wasn’t used to being so. Social rapport came easily to him, but the retort died in his throat.

“I’ll accompany you to class next week. Assuming you are attending,” was all Enjolras said before he pulled away and Courfeyrac’s hands immediately felt cold without the contact.

After that, how could he not attend?

It wasn’t until later that night when Courfeyrac had left the flat and settled into bed that his mind informed him that Enjolras had been trying to cheer him up. The guilt kept him awake for several hours later.

So Courfeyrac did not fully expect to see Enjolras within the lecture hall, though he had shown up just in case. He hadn’t promised Enjolras he would attend, but his silence to Enjolras’ statement indicated assent. He was able to get into a seat close to his friend and the class went on as normal.

There was some relief in the professor’s face when Enjolras maintained his silence throughout the class. Courfeyrac felt uneasy during it all and fidgeted enough times in his chair that the professor felt inclined to bring it to everyone’s attention.

“Are you itchy, Monsieur de Courfeyrac? Are you in need of a tree?”

A witticism immediately came to Courfeyrac’s mind in response but he swallowed it down. Being tossed out would mean leaving Enjolras alone, and despite the relative safety of the class - so long as the professor maintained his temper and wasn’t inclined to throw pieces of chalk or erasers at his more troublesome students - Courfeyrac couldn’t depart from his side. So he merely shook his head and moved on.

The third day, Enjolras was asked to recite an old court case from his book. Enjolras had stood up and read aloud, despite having likely memorized everything within the book. This was, to Courfeyrac, another indication that Enjolras was spending as little time as possible within reality. He couldn’t say he blamed him. Even without the trauma of the night of the barricades, class was as dull as ever.

“…based upon the bruising of the thighs and the tearing of the internal muscles, the coroner came to the conclusion that the female in question had been…” Enjolras paused, and all too soon did Courfeyrac’s brain register what his friend had been reading. He looked over in time to see Enjolras go as white as bone and a hand covered his mouth. Courfeyrac wasn’t sure if he was muffling a noise or if he was going to be sick. He placed a hand on Enjolras’ arm, not caring about the fear for now.

“Continue, Monsieur Enjol-“

But Enjolras was already speeding out the door of the classroom, uncaring of the whispers he left behind. Courfeyrac hastily gathered up his and his friend’s books. “Bad lunch,” he said by way of apology before making his own exit.

He checked the bathroom and finding nothing, he went outside to the steps of the university, finding Enjolras sitting on the second stair to the top, his head in his hands. The crowd of students had long since departed either to their classes or to find a good spot to skive off. Courfeyrac dropped down beside Enjolras. “I’m here,” he said, half for encouragement, half by way of warning as he slowly reached over to touch Enjolras’ knee. There was no flinch which gave him hope.

He had his first conversation with Enjolras upon the steps. They met in class in a manner of speaking. Enjolras had been asked to answer a question, which he did, only the answer had been wrong in the mind of the professor and Enjolras had steadfastly refused to back down, bringing up point after point or argument concerning one case after another. Courfeyrac found himself lost but quickly intrigued, and when Enjolras had been resoundly ejected from the class, he followed on the blond’s heels.

Slowly Enjolras moved his hands off of his face, his pallor still a deathly shade of pale, but there were no tears in his eyes and he didn’t look ill. Combeferre had been right after all, it was still too early. Not that Courfeyrac would say as much. The last thing he suspected Enjolras would want to hear would be how he should go home and get some rest.

Such a statement would only entail a rebellion that would have Enjolras remaining steadfast upon the steps.

Instead, Courfeyrac chose another route. “Come out with me. Let me get you a drink.” It wasn’t an orthodox thing to do. It was all too clear that Enjolras wasn’t fully ready to embrace a normal schedule so Courfeyrac shouldn’t press him for more. But he figured that if Enjolras could manage this, could still keep going despite the disaster of the class, then he was on the right track to recovery. And if Enjolras declined, then that would allow Courfeyrac to escort him back home, a limitation having been found and realized, and they could spend the rest of the day talking.

Well, Courfeyrac talking and Enjolras staring into the distance seeing who knows what.

Enjolras turned haunted eyes toward Courfeyrac and Courfeyrac’s grip on Enjolras’ knee got a bit tighter. “I’ll stay with you,” he said by way of comfort. He longed for the days when he could just embrace his friend tightly and transfer so many feelings into just the barest of touches. Enjolras always understood him, comprehended his ways even though he never adopted them for his own.

Another few minutes passed during which Courfeyrac was almost certain that Enjolras would decline.

“Very well,” he finally said, turning that gaze away from Courfeyrac and schooling his expression into a reserved mask. He took his books from Courfeyrac and stood, Courfeyrac standing with him.

“Let us depart from here. The company will be far better elsewhere. The air won’t feel as contaminated either.” With that, he gently moved his arm around Enjolras’ shoulders. Enjolras flinched but he didn’t move away. Slightly encouraged, Courfeyrac led him off.

\---

Despite the changing political climate, the nightlife of Paris hadn’t changed that much. Clubs kept their own rules after dark, and the main difference was that people talked a bit more easily.

Courfeyrac wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted to accomplish in bringing Enjolras to the Voltaire. They had been here before, albeit for very different reasons. Courfeyrac enjoyed his billiards game and Enjolras tended to draw crowds with his rhetoric as he hoped to gain new recruits. Courfeyrac knew full well that this wasn’t the way Enjolras relaxed even before that night, and he wasn’t so sure his friend had changed that much.

For one, he still didn’t drink. Courfeyrac knew better than to offer regardless and ordered Enjolras a coffee and himself some wine.

He had been on his first drink when the girls approached. They dressed casually, skirts shorter than average, faces painted, hair done up to emphasize their faces, and they approached with a boldness that wasn’t often seen in the ladies Courfeyrac often encountered. He knew what they were after and he politely declined. When he wanted company, he wanted said company to want him for him, not for his money. He felt for the women of the street, albeit not as loudly as Combeferre, but enough so that he would trade information for money rather than sex.

Enjolras politely dismissed one of them who approached him and Combeferre couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps things would gradually settle back to normal. “Mind if I shoot a game?”

Of course Enjolras didn’t. He gestured to the table, allowing Courfeyrac to have his fun while he watched.

By Courfeyrac’s third drink, two more girls had approached Enjolras and his friend was looking a bit uncomfortable as they talked. They giggled behind fans, not maliciously Courfeyrac knew. He often stated how lucky he was that Enjolras never threw his hat in the ring when it came to getting women.

He would have made for a great wingman if only Courfeyrac was able to talk him into coming to the cafes with him more often.

By Courfeyrac’s fourth drink, the women hadn’t let up and Enjolras was looking more resigned than anything. A fact that didn’t sit well with Courfeyrac. Even worse was the smile Enjolras gave to one of the girls, which looked more tired than Courfeyrac liked.

Had he pushed his friend too far? The weight of the pool cue was starting to feel heavy in his hands.

“Your shot,” his opponent groused at him, tired of losing two games in a row.

Enjolras stood up and whispered something in one of the girl’s ear, causing her to blush and then giggle before taking his arm.

That would have been enough for Courfeyrac to approach. What made him drop his cue and storm over to the girls and Enjolras that look of utter terror in Enjolras’ eyes that vanished into an expression that Courfeyrac could only dub as ‘dead’. He had seen that look before, when Combeferre had been cleaning up Enjolras’ wounds for the first time and Enjolras wasn’t just not in reality, he was completely shut down to a point that went beyond numb.

It chilled Courfeyrac to the bone and suddenly he knew that this place had been a mistake and things were worse than he had thought.

He not so kindly pried the woman’s arm off of Enjolras’. “Sorry, ladies. He’s my date for the night. Got some exams tomorrow morning. Need to study.” For once, he didn’t bother to make sure they were fine with this explanation. He pulled Enjolras out of the cafe, and after making sure his voice was neutral, did he speak to him.

“What was that about?”

“I could ask you the same,” Enjolras answered, his voice just as resigned as his expression. “Why did you do that?”

“Because that’s not you, Enjolras! Because of how you looked! Because you…you do know they were prostitutes, don’t you?”

“I did.” It was difficult to miss that when they named their price. “I thought that was what you wanted.”

Courfeyrac stood there, feeling far more shocked at that response than he had at anything all night. “I don’t-what?”

“I thought that was what you wanted,” Enjolras repeated, his tone unchanging. “That I should relax. That I should be better company for you so you could be-” he waved a hand, looking for the right word, “content, I guess.”

“No,” Courfeyrac stumbled, his voice in danger of breaking. “No, I don’t want that. I don’t want you trying to make amends to me. That’s not- Enjolras, that’s not what this is about!” He felt like flailing but his usual dramatics were failing him and he was starting to feel just as numb as his friend as the full force of what was going on with Enjolras finally caught up to him. “You think…you think this is about me being happy?”

Enjolras shook his head. “This is about me trying to apologize to you.”

The sheer ludicrousness of that statement coupled with the severe melancholy it brought to Courfeyrac made his eyes well up. “Don’t say that. Don’t do that! You don’t just fall into the arms of some grisette because of my idiocy!”

A shrug. “What does it matter now?”

Again, Courfeyrac felt himself choke up. What did it matter? It mattered to Courfeyrac. It should matter to Enjolras, and the reality was hitting him like a sledgehammer and he had to brush aside his tears, one hand against his mouth because he couldn’t truly believe this explanation.

Enjolras immediately recoiled. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Once again with the apologies and Courfeyrac shook his head, and being unable to do anything else, he drew Enjolras into a tight hug, trying not to think about the tenseness between his friend’s shoulderblades or how stiff Enjolras felt to him. “Don’t apologize. Not to me. Not to me, Enjolras. You did nothing wrong. I don’t care if that’s what you think, it’s wrong. Do you hear me? It’s wrong!” His voice kept breaking and he was making a mess against Enjolras’ shoulder, but at this point, he felt as though all he had left were his words and how adamantly he needed Enjolras to believe him.

“Please don’t cry.” Enjolras’ voice was small. It didn’t suit him and Courfeyrac clung to him all the more.

“You matter. You matter to me. You matter so much to me.” Courfeyrac was often open with his emotions, so much so that he sometimes feared going overboard. Locked in a gnawing despair right now as the plight of his friend became all too real to him, he was without a clear direction. Enjolras and Combeferre had always steered him well, guided him when he needed the help. But Enjolras was dangerously off-course and Combeferre wasn’t around, and Courfeyrac was feeling so acutely the effects of being adrift.

“I want to help you. I just wanted to help you.” He hoped he wasn’t bruising Enjolras’ skin with his fingers. It would just be another burden for his friend to carry. “You have done nothing wrong.”

Alone. Directionless. All Courfeyrac could do was repeat himself in the hope that his poorly-chosen words would sink in and make a difference.


	3. Chapter Three

**Joly**

They did not come to him.

He came to them.

Joly found him in one of the free clinics as he was prepared to check on a few patients. The room was kept separate from the others, housing the terminally ill. The best anyone could do for those people was to keep them comfortable as they slowly faded from this realm of existence.

The cholera panic was a bit more contained since the revolution, but it wasn’t gone entirely. Like Joly, there were plenty of other doctors attempting to secure better treatment for the sufferers. But even then, the deaths proved to either be spontaneous or lingering only up to a few days.

And then there were the victims of a few small counter-revolutions against the Republic, stemming from people terrified of the past and unable to move forward without the familiarity of a monarchy.

Bossuet had told him not to worry about such things, that the bourgeois will soon have more to do than strike out against them. Joly responded that people had once said the same thing about the students.

Bossuet had shrugged and wrote a few more lines in the play they had been writing.

Joly had been too busy to see Enjolras since the month’s end, and while he hadn’t seen all that had been done to him, he had heard about the rest from Combeferre, and only because Combeferre came to request medical supplies from him in order to treat certain wounds. Joly had given them over without much thought, figuring he could make up the loss with Bossuet when they raided a hospital with far more implements that any place set up to treat the poor and disenfranchised.

He hoped that would change shortly.

Bossuet, for his part, hadn’t seen Enjolras for entirely different reasons and he couldn’t blame time or a workload. Joly allowed him to keep his reasons, understanding them while at the same time not liking them. But Bossuet would come around on his own in good measure.

Enjolras stood next to one of the beds, staring down at the patient. The woman in the bed was still, not fighting for her life or shifting with the pain. She had been given tranquilizers to keep her out of reality, and Joly wasn’t certain if she’d come out of them or go peacefully.

Joly stayed in the doorway, his task forgotten momentarily as he watched Enjolras. The room wasn’t kept locked, of course. Anyone could come in, and sometimes a few family members dropped by to give their final regards.

Of course he’d want to be with the people, Joly thought. He always did, but he really should cover up in case something is contagious.

He felt his heart clench when Enjolras reached down and touched the woman’s wrist, lithe fingers moving against the gradually slowing pulse.

“What does she dream?”

Enjolras’ voice cut into Joly’s consciousness and he blinked while he shifted his notepad, abruptly needing to do something to prove he hadn’t been staring. “Uh..”

“Is it comforting to her?”

“It..I don’t think she dreams of anything. She’s drugged, you see. So her mind may either be seeing the fantastical or perhaps nothing at all,” Joly finally stammered out as he went to check on the few patients as was his original intent.

“I hope she’s dreaming,” Enjolras said, placing her arm back upon the bed with infinite gentleness. “I don’t see it anymore, Joly.”

This was not a conversation Joly wanted to be having. He felt uncomfortable and awkward and wished he could just do something medical so that he wouldn’t feel this way and so Enjolras’ voice wouldn’t have that hint of need within it. “See what?” He asked, even though he didn’t want the answer.

“The vision. The ideal. I try to place the symbols, but it all falls to pieces. I can’t envision the world.” Enjolras gestured, as he was sometimes wont to do, as though taking an object and putting it into place. “I try. I try constantly because I know of precious little ways to think, but it all goes utterly blank. Yet instead of a white canvas, I see an endless supply of blackness.”

Definitely not a conversation Joly wanted to have, and he took his time checking the temperature of another patient. “Well, we won,” he said with false cheer. “We won so we’re living in that future, right? Maybe that’s why you can’t see it. Because it’s now immersed in reality.”

“Maybe…” Enjolras trailed off, his gaze straying to another patient.

Joly hoped that would be the end of it. He wanted to ask Enjolras how he was besides the lack of the metaphorical, but the words would sound utterly flat. So he kept his back to his friend and continued his efforts. He was blinking a lot more which wasn’t good for either his charts or his notes.

“Are you happy?”

Not a question Joly had been expecting. Still, he answered with an automatic response. “I am comfortable. Content, really. There’s a hope that wasn’t completely there before. The inevitable has come to pass, all that’s left are the details, and once they’re sorted out, I think I’ll be very happy.”

“Then I don’t think the ideal has come to pass just yet. If it had, there wouldn’t be so many within this room.”

Joly’s teeth clenched and he hoped his silence would get it across to Enjolras that he didn’t want to talk about this.

No such luck.

“Mankind moves at is own pace, but the revolution is not yet done. Not with the counter-revolutions and quite a few people in the committees just waiting for a sign of the foreign nations to converge upon us and stifle our fledgling state.”

Joly breathed in and breathed out once. Twice. Tried to gather his thoughts. “Are you not optimistic?”

“I am. I don’t believe the other nations will come against us. The committees in place are good men who won’t let the mistakes of before happen. We know better now. I am merely saying that the ideal is not yet in place so I don’t think that’s really a valid reason for me not being able to see that world anymore.”

Joly couldn’t see Enjolras but he could hear a new strain in his voice. It was the same strain within his own as he struggled to figure out what new disease was killing a patient. It was a need for answers, a clawing, demanding need because the reality was just too horrendous without some form of logic or a path to make things better.

Enjolras was searching for that path.

Joly had no answers. All he had was awkwardness. “I can’t help you there,” he said, moving to tend to the next patient.

There was a pause.

“No, I don’t believe you can. Nor should you. I shouldn’t impose.”

It wasn’t imposing, Joly wanted to say but he couldn’t. He feared his own voice breaking, and he was doubtful anything he said could possibly help Enjolras. His scribbles were starting to grow more furious and a droplet of water splashed upon his clipboard, obscuring the words. He wished to throw it down and leave the room and all of its contents behind.

Enjolras shifted a bit on the bed, turning himself so that he faced the dying woman. “Do you think death is peaceful?” He asked, which caused something to snap in Joly.

“For pity’s sake!” He yelled, turning around to face Enjolras, face a bit blotched with a few tear tracks upon his cheeks.

Enjolras looked at him in stark surprise at first, and then the expression turned into something Joly never wanted to see. Enjolras looked lost. Completely and utterly lost as his clear blue gaze searched Joly’s face not for answers this time around.

Signs, Joly knew. He thought it bitterly ironic that the both of them were searching the other on cues for how to respond.

Finally Joly sighed. “Can’t you just-” He struggled to find the words and when nothing came to him, he settled on the ones he didn’t want to say but had little means to express himself otherwise. “Can’t we both just pretend it’s all right?”

The words hung in the air and Joly equally wanted to take them back and let them stay in-between the two of them. He was being selfish, he knew. Enjolras wanted to talk and he wanted to pretend and he knew there was no middle ground in this.

He yearned for Combeferre who would know what to do, what to say. Who would be able to speak to Enjolras on the metaphorical and move his thoughts away from the still-breathing corpses on the bed, and then he would turn to Joly and request something, maybe some medication to help keep Joly away from this…whatever this was.

Enjolras slowly lowered his gaze. “Of course,” he said. “Of course.”

Joly felt his heart break, but he had lost his moment and going to Enjolras to embrace him now would make a mockery of it all. But in that moment, he wished he could take it all back. It wasn’t Enjolras’ fault as to what happened to him. It wasn’t Enjolras who was crying on a clipboard, trying to pretend everything was fine. It wasn’t Enjolras who feared trying to talk to a friend, to open up, Joly corrected himself.

But it was Enjolras who complied with Joly’s wishes and all Joly could do was try to ignore the omnipresent sadness that emanated from his friend that gnawed on his own guilt.

He wanted to apologize. He didn’t dare. And suddenly, he couldn’t stand to be around Enjolras a second longer.

“Let us speak on other matters.” And still, it was Enjolras who pressed, who smiled at him which only served to tear at Joly’s heart further. “I heard you were starting another clinic.”

“I am,” Joly replied and even his voice sounded clinical, detached. “We’re hoping to get better funding.”

“I can try writing to the committees for you. I know a few names. Quite a few from Marseilles.”

“That would be very helpful. You could probably word it all better than me. Focusing more on the logistics of aiding the sick rather than myself trying to focus on the emotions.”

“Something like that, yes.” There was a pause that stretched out longer than necessary. “You take such good care of them all, Joly.”

The praise wasn’t sarcastic. Enjolras was always genuine. It sliced through Joly’s skin like a razor. “You should probably go.”

Once again, the words were out before Joly could stop them. This time, Enjolras didn’t wait to digest them. He stood up quickly, as though he had been expecting the dismissal for some time. “Of course,” was all he said.

Joly was getting tired of hearing those words. As Enjolras passed him by, he had an impulse to clutch at his friend’s arm, to apologize, to tell him that he wasn’t any good with this, that he didn’t know what to say and that it hurt him so badly that he couldn’t help that he would rather the situation just depart from him all the sooner. Because if Enjolras remained, he would only hurt him more.

It was Enjolras who halted in the doorway. “You should come by and visit sometime when you’ve the convenience.”

An open invitation. Joly swallowed back a thousand responses. “I will,” he said, though he didn’t think he would. Not until Enjolras was better. Not until he could master his own feelings and not heave them onto his friend who already looked as though he was carrying the burden of the world.

“Enjolras,” he said, turning around to face the doorway, but Enjolras was already gone. It was just as well.

He wasn’t sure what he was going to say anyway.


	4. Chapter Four

**Bossuet**

“Invite him to dinner.”

Joly froze up and turned to his friend. “What? After everything I just told you?”

He hadn’t spared any details of Enjolras’ visit, and Bossuet hadn’t pressed for any more than Joly could deliver. To Bossuet, the end verdict was frightfully clear.

“You’re right. We should bring dinner to him.”

Joly didn’t ask him why, nor did he discourage him, but Bossuet wasn’t blind and he could see the look in Joly’s eyes. The only reason why Bossuet wasn’t fearful himself was because he wouldn’t allow himself to give in to the emotion. Joly needed a strong support, and since Laigle wasn’t exactly helpful in other matters regarding either rent or Joly’s work, he thought he could at least fulfill this role.

He speculated on just who provided the support for Enjolras and his mind went immediately to Combeferre. Perhaps they would get lucky and Combeferre would be there.

He would take the food and shoo them away and they’d return home, feeling like they had done their requisite duty and could move on. Perhaps then Joly wouldn’t feel as guilty.

As it were, the door was opened by Enjolras who looked at them in surprise, having not expected Joly to take him up on his offer.

“We brought dinner!” Bossuet started, holding up the packages. “May we come in?”

Enjolras moved aside to allow them entrance. He locked up his door afterwards and Bossuet noted that there was but one lock. Not a dead bolt as he would have thought, but then his mind continuously came up with the worst case possibilities. The curtains were also drawn back from the windows, letting in the receding sunlight. Also a surprise to Bossuet, who expected the curtains to be drawn.

He had also considered the possibility that Enjolras spent his days huddled up in a corner of his room or living room while his body slowly recovered. Combeferre would try to entice him out with food and placate him with every nightmare.

Bossuet knew the ideas were foolish and didn’t allow for Enjolras’ character, but he had only Joly’s fictional novels and a few medical books that didn’t go into much detail as to how victims behaved. Normally it was all heavily romanticized in fiction.

He almost wished that was the case here. He could handle a huddling Enjolras, but not one who was staring at him so intently while Joly studied the floor.

“We know its been awhile.” It would appear as though the main conversation would be on him. “But we figured you would be busy with other matters. I heard you went back to class. Perhaps I’ll see you there at some point, though I think I’d have better luck just cramming at the final hour.”

He laughed. Joly ground his toe into the rug. Enjolras’ gaze went downward. “I’ll take the food,” he said, though made no motion to reach for it. “You’re both under no obligation to stay.”

For a few seconds, Joly looked hopeful.

“We want to stay,” Bossuet said abruptly. He wasn’t sure why his voice was suddenly more certain. Like Joly, he also longed to be away. Enjolras was dressed casually and he could see the white linen bandages wrapped around his chest peeking out of his shirt. “Let’s break bread together. We can talk about our plans for the future. Joly said that you’d be able to help with that.”

There was a flash of almost liveliness within Enjolras’ eyes before he turned to retrieve the requisite plates.

Despite that, they ate the first half of the meal in an awkward silence. While Joly kept his eyes on the food, every so often he’d sneak a look at Enjolras. Enjolras simply didn’t look up. Yet in Enjolras’ customary movement of the food upon his plate to make it look as though he’d eaten more, he brought a bit of relief to Bossuet. Habits, he knew, when broken often showed a person’s true mental state. Enjolras, in the usage of small mannerisms that were so innately him, showed Bossuet that Enjolras was still himself. Still capable of being himself. Whether or not he was on the mend was tough to decipher.

So he started to speak of other matters. Starting conversations was normally not his strength. He preferred relegating himself to the sidelines of matters, spouting off an occasional sarcastic quip or encouraging others in their pursuits. Joly typically leapt into conversations with both feet, being both eloquent and casual and knowing the exact balance.

Right now, between Joly’s quiet demeanor and Enjolras’ normal stoicism, Bossuet ended up speaking more than before.

He talked first about Joly’s new project for a free clinic. He spoke of raising funds, and in an effort to draw Enjolras out, reminded him of Enjolras’ statement of writing to the committee.

“It will be finished by tomorrow. I’ll write it throughout the night.”

“We don’t mean to interfere with your sleep!”

“I don’t sleep.”

Enjolras’ sense of humor was a tricky thing. Bossuet sometimes couldn’t tell if his friend was having a joke or if he was in complete earnestness. Right now, he couldn’t tell if Enjolras was stating a somewhat known fact, and one that Courfeyrac sometimes joked about, or if he had just impeded accidentally on a mine field of problems.

Was the lack of sleep related to that night? Was Enjolras just stating what he did out of habit? Bossuet didn’t dare ask. The silence stretched into uncomfortable levels and Joly shifted beside him. Enjolras looked up, as though suddenly aware of what he had just done and said.

Bossuet didn’t like the stricken look. It didn’t suit Enjolras at all.

“There’s still a great deal left to do. I never have time to sleep. Barely any time to eat. So I’m glad you brought this over,” he gestured at the food, unable to keep his gaze on Bossuet or Joly anymore than he had to.

He was probably reprimanding himself for that, Bossuet figured, and he wrung his hands a bit. “Yes, well, you’re not really eating this at all, are you?”

Enjolras looked back up, and this time he appeared grateful, which only served to twist the dagger in Bossuet’s heart. Enjolras was grateful that he was going along with the explanation, all the while knowing that for the first time, his friend wasn’t being entirely genuine, but if it would soften the blow…

Bossuet felt like punching something and he couldn’t explain why. Instead, he offered Enjolras a smile. “You should, though. Keep your strength up, and we need you at your best.”

He thought about all the ways those words could be interpreted but Enjolras didn’t seem to take any offense. It had quite the opposite effect on him as the man started to eat.

Was that for his sake or mine, Bossuet wondered. But he was getting tired of feeling so useless, so he started up another round of conversation again, and this time Enjolras replied a little more frequently.

Throughout it, Bossuet felt as though he was seeing glimpses, shards of who Enjolras used to be, how he used to act. If only Joly wasn’t so hesitant to speak up, perhaps he could pretend that this was normal.

Though they had never really visited Enjolras at his home before, so perhaps normal wasn’t quite the word Bossuet was going for.

Relaxed. There it was. He wanted them all relaxed and comfortable with one another again. He wanted Enjolras shifting from reality to the abstract, every so often jumping into a conversation with a quick, sharp statement. He wanted Joly rambling about his work, about the new illness of the day, and how his own political manifestos were lost in the papers Bossuet had accidentally dropped down a sewer hole. He wanted peace between them all. They wouldn’t have to go back to how they were before, but he wanted to press through the dismal bits and get to the point where they could embrace this new world with all its splendours.

They were living within the new Republic. There should be nothing but happiness. Not tense awkwardness punctuated by Bossuet who was quickly running out of topics that he thought Enjolras would respond to. He couldn’t go into details about the clubs or the theaters, otherwise he’d be the only one speaking.

It was Joly who ended the night for all three of them. “We should get going. I need to get back to the clinic early in the morning.”

If this was true, Bossuet was uncertain, but he supposed it was only fair. Despite the silence, Joly had come along with him tonight, had endured dinner, and had helped him purchase it. It was only fair to take his discomfort into consideration so that when he said to leave, they would leave.

As luck would have it, Bossuet had forgotten about Enjolras’ injuries and before leaving, he embraced the other man in a tight hug.

There was a sharp hiss of air, pained, and Bossuet could remember animal-like screams in the back of his memory. For a few seconds, he was there, on the other side of the barricade and hoping that Joly couldn’t tell what was going on within the Corinthe.

Just keep treating them, he had thought. Just keep treating them and don’t come outside. I don’t want you listening to this.

Enjolras’ reaction startled Bossuet enough that the other man pulled away abruptly. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Are you all right?”

And Joly, unable to stop his medical training, came forward. “Let me see if you’re bleeding.”

But Enjolras had moved back before Joly could lay hands on him, and in that moment Joly remembered himself. He stepped back as Enjolras looked imploringly up at him. “I’m sorry,” was all Joly could say. “I didn’t-“

And then Joly was gone, rushing out past Bossuet, unable to remain in the flat or the apartment anymore.

Bossuet watched him go before turning back to Enjolras whose expression had gone entirely blank. “I’m sorry about that. He’s still trying to cope. It’s tough for us to see you like this.” It was blunt, but it was honest and Bossuet thought Enjolras would understand.

Enjolras nodded. “It’s understandable. You should go to him. He probably needs your help more than me.”

Not very likely, Bossuet thought. He lifted up his arm slowly, letting Enjolras see what he was going to do before touching Enjolras’ shoulder. “He’ll come around.” It was cold comfort but it was all Bossuet could give. Words were failing him and sarcasms weren’t helpful in such a case. Enjolras needed better support than he knew he could give, but at least Bossuet could acknowledge that. “If you want, I can send over Combeferre?”

Enjolras dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “Let him sleep tonight. He’s been busy enough.”

Busy with you or busy with the Republic, Bossuet asked himself. He hoped it was for the former. Much as he wanted to encourage the Republic to grow and he knew Combeferre would happily embrace the progress that was to be made and aid it however possible, he felt that Enjolras deserved more of Combeferre’s time. But then he was always more concerned with his friends than he was with the Republic. One was a grand idea, now put into place and accomplished through many.

The other was a warm-blooded being and Bossuet had two right now having very bad days, but only one of them he could comfort.

The other, he prayed, wasn’t lost yet.


	5. Chapter Five

**Feuilly**

‘Would he want this?’

Probably not this way. Not with these methodologies.

‘Do you care?’

No.

A blunt answer that meant far more to Feuilly than he was willing to admit. No, Enjolras would not like his methods. All of mankind are my brothers.

Yeah, well, your brothers scarred and raped you, he said to the niggling voice in the back of his head. So you can be quiet and let me do my damn job.

That was harsh and Feuilly winced in place of the absent Enjolras who had taken the place of his conscience. He had risen too fast, too far after the revolution. He had gone from a fanmaker to ‘the man with the plan’ as Courfeyrac dubbed him once. He led a crew of six men at the barricades, and at the end, he had been granted a position in the new Republic. He opted for the position that would allow him to not only bring home a sizable paycheck, but also had the wonderful recompensation of allowing him to exercise his anger.

He had a lot of anger to exercise.

“There.”

He had five people on his team. Resources were finite and Feuilly knew how to get the best results with what he had. He signaled for them to move into formation.

Before their opponents could raise their guns to aim, Feuilly and his group had them surrounded. Feuilly was armed with a rifle in his hands, which he kept aimed at the leader, and a pistol at his waist. “Drop your weapons.” He didn’t bother to add an ‘or’ at the end. He didn’t bluff and he didn’t negotiate.

Part of him was hoping they would keep hold of their weapons and try something.

But the guns were soon dropped onto the ground and Feuilly signaled to one of his men to retrieve them.

“You really think this will stop us?” The leader asked, his voice clipped and posh. Feuilly knew the type. It was the aristocracy that were having so many issues adjusting to this new regime. Far too soon did many of them find themselves out of a high-ranking position in court. Far too many never had the qualifications for such a spot anyway. “Wait another year or so and another Napoleon will come about.”

“Then I’ll shoot him dead,” Feuilly responded when he saw the leader glance upwards.

He acted on instinct. “In the building!”

One month on the job and already Feuilly was a practiced soldier. It hadn’t been his career of choice when he was young, but his prospects had been heavily limited so it wasn’t as though he had a chance to dream. His flat was still filled with a few paintings, all decorative and imaginary as he had long since outgrew his desire to paint beautiful women dressed in clothes he could never afford even if he wanted them. The color red was prevalent in them all and he never painted people now.

He moved with the speed and precision of a man trained within the fire. What did these people know of barricades? What did they know of stolen revolutions? Of paving stones? Of quickly cobbled together weapons that would just as likely fail as they would do enormous damage?

One of his men, the one scrounging for weapons, was shot through the leg. The opponents on the ground were already going for their weapons. It was all the opportunity Feuilly needed.

He opened fire and his men did the same.

Not so long ago, he had been the first to open fire as well. His bullet catching one man in the brain, the one who stood over Enjolras, grinning his sick grin. He died with that grin still on his face. Courfeyrac’s gun echoed next.

“We were lucky,” Combeferre told him afterwards while the three of them and Enjolras were within the latter’s residence. “Did you see the other men coming up from behind?”

“No,” Feuilly had responded, sitting by the window, eyes fixed on some distant perch in the darkness. “I didn’t see anyone but my target.”

The truth and a lie. He didn’t see their other army coming up to overtake the National Guard. He had seen Enjolras, and at that point, he opened fire because he knew full well that even if he missed, even if one of their opponents drew their gun and shot Enjolras dead, that would be far more merciful than letting them continue their treatment. His only regret was that he hadn’t shot earlier.

“We were lucky all the same,” Combeferre repeated.

“No,” Feuilly said. “We weren’t.”

Right now, luck had little to do with it. Feuilly moved underneath the cover a building, the canopy of the store hanging over him and protecting him from view. He used quick, silent gestures to his remaining men before disappearing into said store, having to pick the lock as he went.

This was fine. He was used to working under pressure.

He raced up the stairs, getting to one of the higher windows and waited once more.

There were times when he could be said to have an infinite amount of patience.

“Is it permanent?” Enjolras asked Combeferre while Combeferre dabbed the carving on his chest with medication.

“It shouldn’t be, but it will remain for some time.” Combeferre, always truthful when it came to practicalities. He thought the medication would dampen the scarring but he wasn’t going to grant Enjolras false hope.

Feuilly watched them both from his perch at the window. It was with great care that he had finally settled his gaze on Enjolras, memorizing every wound, every welt, every damn scar on his skin with an unyielding eye for detail. He needed to take in this canvas, this unspeakable crime done to a friend who was the most undeserving of them all.

Enjolras was stained but he was not ruined. Feuilly knew Enjolras would recover, but at the same time, he couldn’t ascertain when that would be. He could meet Enjolras’ gaze, however, and for the first time Enjolras had looked away first. Feuilly’s steely determination sharpened to a fine blade in that moment.

Heavy footfalls as Feuilly came closer to Enjolras and knelt down just a bit so that he could be at eye level.

“The Republic still has need of you,” he said, but Enjolras didn’t respond. A few strands of golden hair fell in his face, shielding his eyes from view. Had Feuilly been a lesser man, he would have given in to the impulse to reach out and brush the strands back into place.

Right now, he felt that everything deserved the right to fall where it must. “Sometimes it’s better to sink a little than to swim. I learned that long ago when I felt as if I could never dare to dream. I sank, Enjolras. I sank and it was not so terrible because it was my choice, not theirs. Not the world’s. I sank because I knew, deep down, that somewhere along the way, I would have the choice to swim once again. And because I chose to sink when I did, I was able to remain off the bottom of the ocean floor and handle the tides that came my way.”

Enjolras remained unmoving. No matter. Feuilly knew he was listening.

“I’m swimming again,” he said. And this time he did reach up to clasp Enjolras on the shoulder. Their positions had been reversed, and Feuilly would tag Enjolras if Enjolras could not tag him so that they could switch.

“Let me shoulder the burden now, and I will make the world sing for you.”

Enjolras looked up at him finally through the strands of his hair that barely obscured his vision. Feuilly couldn’t be certain what Enjolras saw in his face or in himself personally, but it was enough to warrant a nod.

Feuilly was fine with that small gesture. He would have been fine with no gesture at all.

A sudden flash of light came in from a window across Feuilly’s building. He shot once. There was the sound of glass shattering followed by a dull thud of a body hitting the floor that Feuilly couldn’t truly hear but could certainly imagine.

He emerged from the store, dropping a few coins on the counter out of a new habit. This hadn’t been the only place he had broken into before while on a job.

There were no survivors save for Feuilly and his men. Pockets were searched. Purses were confiscated, and on two of the men, they found a slip of paper that gave them instructions on what to do with their bodies.

All in all, a successful night with only one near casualty.

Feuilly rolled up the pants sleeve of the wounded man and tied a bandage around the leg. “You will lean on me until we get back,” he instructed.

“He’ll be leaning on you,” Feuilly told Combeferre after Enjolras had been settled into bed. The two men stood within the living area of the flat.

“And what of you?”

“I’ll be busy with the Republic. There is much to be done.”

“You don’t think he’d want to see you?”

That wasn’t the problem. Feuilly knew Enjolras would want to see him. Feuilly would hardly mind seeing Enjolras. But what was he to tell him? That he had spent his time in Enjolras’ flat, trying to talk to him, when he could be doing something far greater in scope? “I’m sure he will. So you will give him this message.”

“Yes?” Combeferre sounded unsure. Feuilly couldn’t blame him.

“That when next I come to him, I will give him his Republic. It will be safe within my hands, I’ll make certain of it.” Every word felt like a bomb. Feuilly’s fists clenched in his pockets while he stared straightforward at Combeferre. “This is all I can do for him right now. I can say he did no wrong. He won’t believe it. I can say I still love him. He wouldn’t think himself capable of being loved. I can say many things, but what will get through to him the most is that I believe in him and his dream, and I will keep that safe.”

Because he couldn’t keep Enjolras safe. Because he had been told to stand down when he had a clear shot of the men harming him that night. Because he had listened to that order until the very last minute.

He did not owe a debt. He owed Enjolras an apology, and he knew Enjolras well enough to know that words just wouldn’t suffice.

Victory. Nothing less.

He had left that night with a heavy heart and the next day found him taking his position to secure the safety of the new Republic. The gun within his hands would remain there for months, for years if it had to.

It was another half an hour to get the corpses where they needed to go and to see his wounded comrade-in-arms safely to a doctor who specialized in treating gunshot wounds. At least that’s what Feuilly had been told. He didn’t ask too many questions.

Another half an hour later, he found himself standing on the warm pavement, staring up at the window to Enjolras’ flat. He didn’t have to imagine what Enjolras was doing. His friend was looking right down at him.

He didn’t feel uncomfortable. The night’s success was one more step in the right direction, and while Enjolras drove home the fact that he hadn’t yet stamped out all the threats to the Republic, it did lessen his anger just a bit. He raised a hand in greeting, knowing that he couldn’t yet go inside to talk to his friend.

Enjolras raised a hand in return.

Sometimes he felt guilty about not visiting. And then he received another notice that a small group of people were amassing elsewhere and they were being a bit too vocal about the need for a king to stamp out the ‘liberal terror.’ His guilt was buried, and Feuilly took a breath in, steeling himself once more in order to keep France safe.

He turned away from the flat, but not from Enjolras, and walked off to his next mission, his anger growing with every step.


	6. Chapter Six

**Bahorel**

They had all chipped in for the funeral. Enjolras hadn't been able to attend as he was working off a fever from an infection that had set into one of his wounds. He was drifting in a state of waking nightmares throughout the funeral, and Combeferre hadn't wanted to leave his side. He feared losing his friend. Enjolras, at that point, feared nothing at all.

There was still a sense of guilt at having missed the service. Enjolras had purchased a statue for his friend, knowing that money couldn't make up for anything, but Bahorel needed something of a steady marker. He was still with them in spirit, unto their own dying days. Thus, Enjolras needed something put in place that would last, and tombstones just didn't feel right.

He let Jehan pick out whatever he thought would suit Bahorel more. Surely not an angel, but there were no statues of brass knuckles or a set of paving stones, so Jehan had settled on a makeshift cross that was not truly a cross at all but a sword interlocked with a dagger. On the top of the hilt of said sword was a stone and colored rose that sprouted out and looked so very life-like that it had immediately attracted Jehan's attention. The sword cross was held in place by a solid stone with its bottom half buried within the earth to prevent it from toppling over.

After his recovery, Enjolras had made it a point to try and see Bahorel's grave at least once a week. He hadn't succeeded before today. Going out of his flat took a great deal of his energy with him, and he wasn't so sure he could credit that to his injuries. Making his way to the cemetery also required him to move past mobs of people. Paris was a happier place, which made him less apprehensive, but at the same time he was treated with the looks he received before the barricades. His face was still beautiful, his hair still shone with the sun, and if his eyes appeared haunted, it only added to his natural charm.

He heard the whispers. His senses were not overly sensitive, but he had become accustomed to silence for so long within his flat that any sort of noise pricked against his ears, and he couldn't tune them out. He kept his head up, unable to slouch even now except when his skin was paining him, and even then he compensated for it every time he caught himself. He had his moment of weakness before.

Never again.

And still, he could swear he saw the faces of the volunteers on the barricade watching him, knowing, and likely wondering why it was he still lived and how could he go about his day as though nothing had happened. His dreams were plagued with the faces of his assailants. Out in the street, he saw nothing but his audience, and he wasn't sure which was more terrible.

He barely exchanged three words with the girl selling flowers on the street. If pressed, he could not give any details about what she was wearing or how much she discounted the bouquet he purchased from her. He barely saw her smile and couldn't bring himself to complete his facade by returning it.

Bahorel's grave had a slightly wilted purple flower next to it. Left by Jehan most likely, Enjolras thought, his fingertips touching one of the petals. He knew his friends often came by, not because they told him, but because he knew them so well. Just because one of them had fallen did not mean he wasn't with them, and it certainly didn't mean they were willing to leave him behind.

Enjolras knelt down and placed the bouquet against the rock of the monument. Despite him being the only one in the vicinity right now, he couldn't help feeling a little awkward. What was he to say? Talk to a grave, perhaps? Talk to the spirit of Bahorel that was more than likely peeping in to girl's shows rather than waste his time at his own grave? He could more easily see Bahorel haunting a few of their oppressors or poking at the counter-revolutionaries as a poltergeist. It would suit him far more than this place.

He didn't believe in most religions. Enjolras' one solid god was that of the people. Mankind ought to be free to govern themselves, not leave it up to either a distant deity that would play with them like children's toys or a king. Still, he couldn't help but wish that wherever Bahorel was, he had found peace.

"I hope I'm not inconveniencing you," he started. It was a phrase he had said multiple times to Bahorel, mostly in jest or dry humor. He had said it while Bahorel sat within a jail cell, waiting to be bailed out. He had said it to Bahorel while Bahorel had his hands full of playing cards or dice or a billiards cue. And each time, there was no inconvenience. Bahorel would hand over the dice to another with a quick grin, or he would fold his hand despite his winnings, or he would use the cue on someone's head to signify the end of a game and how one just shouldn't try to play the shark around him.

Bahorel made time for him because he knew that when Enjolras approached, it was never something mundane. Enjolras tended to reserve the higher risk jobs for Bahorel, catering to his strengths, acknowledging the fact that Bahorel could communicate just as well with his voice as he could his fists. Bahorel did a great deal of traveling for his friends, moving from one end of the city to another, speaking at different cafes, finding recruits, and working his rounds.

Les Amis hadn't been the first group Bahorel had partnered with, and his string of contacts could have competed with Courfeyrac's had Courfeyrac not been so keen on making contacts that weren't revolutionaries and who had no such desires on becoming one. Bahorel ultimately settled with Enjolras' group simply because not only were they the most proactive, but Bahorel was utilized not just as a protector, but as a somewhat ambassador.

He would never write a pamphlet. He would never debate and discuss politics for hours on end. He would certainly never be a lawyer. But he would always be a friend and his loyalty was as absolute in that regard as his republicanism.

Enjolras missed him.

That was an understatement. There was a pain in his chest that had nothing to do with his injuries, and when he opened his mouth to speak the words just wouldn't come. He felt as though he was being choked, but not strangled, and all he could do was clutch his hands into fists and try to will away the deluge of emotion that threatened to spill forth and engulf him more readily than the night on the barricade, but a part of him was so tired of fighting against himself while at the same time, he didn't want to crack in front of Bahorel of all people. Which was blatantly ridiculous because Bahorel, if he was on this realm, was probably too ensconced in other pleasures, and Enjolras couldn't blame him. Who would want to see a friend weep? Who would want to see someone like him break down? Bahorel had other things to do. Bahorel had…

Bahorel was dead.

And Enjolras was the one who felt like a ghost.

This was not the way it was supposed to happen. This wasn't how the future was meant to go. Enjolras swallowed hard, forcing himself to try and give in to his frustrations because they were safer than the tears. He was determined not to show the world his misery, least of all his friends since they were the ones truly suffering. Not him.

Not him.

So why was there always so much pain? And why, whenever he tried to rectify something with one of them, there was always such distance and he ended up making things worse?

And Bahorel. A man who died without hearing the screams, without seeing Enjolras' betrayal, was an innocent in all of this. Yet here he was, wanting to scream to the heavens, to wherever Bahorel could be found about his own misery when his friend suffered a fate that some may have called worse than what Enjolras had been through.

He envied Bahorel and that tore him up inside. The man died with honor, with his dignity intact. He died without seeing true horror, without having to suffer the visual of Enjolras' betrayal, and yet, at that moment, Enjolras wanted little else than to show Bahorel exactly what he had missed.

Was it punishment for himself? For Bahorel? Was he looking for some form of sympathy? An ally? That was ridiculous. They were all his allies in their own way and he was endlessly thankful that they could even still look at him.

He lifted up one hand and loosened his cravat, tugging it without undoing the knot. It was imperfect, he knew, but he didn't much care. He had never really cared about such matters, and right now, all the layers of clothing he wore was irritating him to the point of his actions becoming savage.

"Don't you see?" He hissed at the ground. "Don't you see that I shouldn't even be here talking to you? As though I deserve it. Do you know what I am?" His fingers curled as he grasped at his shirt, avoiding his waistcoat, and let his nails sink into the ruined flesh on his chest. "I am your Judas. You died, you died for our cause, you died for the people, you died believing in me, and what did I do? I disgraced your memory, Bahorel."

The pressure of his fingers delivered a sharp stinging pain that felt amplified by multiple nerve sets within his body. Enjolras just grabbed harder.

"I disgraced them all, and you died without knowing. Did your spirit see what happened before you departed? Did you carry it back with you? Do you hate me? I wish you would, and yet," he faltered, took a deep breath, and continued on. "I want your forgiveness. But that's the ridiculous part of all this, isn't it? I can't do anything for you. I can't talk to you. I can't even smile at you, so how are you to forgive me? How are you to even think of me? I'm selfish, aren't I? Here you are, lying dead under the ground, your parents in tears over your loss, and all I can do is beg you for forgiveness that I don't deserve. It is selfish, Bahorel. And it's just another sin I can tack on to the multitudes I continually make. My first chance to see you again, to be as close to you as the ground permits, and what is it that I ask of you? Something I shouldn't be granted. Ah, if it comes, it comes, but gods-"

Again, he paused. He could not continue this time around.

His chest throbbed and a red spot was forming underneath his shirt, soaking the bandages.

Perhaps he could just bleed out here. Let his friends find him draped over Bahorel's grave, his last act sin on top of sin. Selfishness upon suicide. It would come as a relief to them, perhaps.

But even now…

Even now Enjolras wanted to get up from the ground and go to Combeferre's and get some new bandages and just stop the bleeding because death still held little appeal to him. He yearned for peace, not endless darkness. And for the first time, he cursed his own obstinacy.

"You're bleeding!"

Enjolras looked up, eyes shining and yet startled, his hand still against his chest, his nails no longer digging into his skin.

There stood Grantaire, holding a new potted purple flower.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Grantaire**

_He had woken up to silence. Then revelry. There were no drinks. There were marches. There was little else but noise and Grantaire's head pounded with every gunshot launched in the air. There were armies of people dressed in tricolors. There was the National Guard standing down._

_Yet the faces of his friends were grim. They had lost Bahorel and Grantaire had paled when he saw his friend laying dead in the Corinthe. The only consolation was that Bahorel had gone out fighting. Living as he died._

_It took him awhile to note that there was no Enjolras._

_This was not a cause for concern. There were a thousand and one reasons as to why Enjolras wasn't there. He was off conferring with the other leaders. He was off leading some form of marching. He was off to personally escort the king out of town. He was simply off. And he had taken Combeferre with him._

_Grantaire suspected he would see him soon._

Enjolras was looking at him now and Grantaire couldn't help but think how badly unprepared he was for this moment. His gaze drifted from his idol's hollow eyes to the purple flower he clutched in his hands. Recognizing Enjolras' coat from the back, he had debated coming to Bahorel's grave and chance a meeting with a man he hadn't seen in a month, and yet couldn't get out of his mind.

When he heard about what had happened - small bits and pieces that filtered in through his friends via hushed voices - he had destroyed a cafe, flipping over tables in what felt like an unstoppable rage. And yet his anger felt cold to him, like his body and heart had gone painfully numb. There was no passion in his cries, no heart in his vandalism. He was banned from that particular cafe and Courfeyrac had taken care of the money for the repairs. Grantaire thanked him but the words were flat.

"Just clean yourself up," Courfeyrac said, no doubt understanding Grantaire's actions.

Grantaire did so. He couldn't give up the drink entirely, but he could press forward. He took his talent for art and put it to a usage that did not have him a large clientele, but it brought in the money all the same.

"You were right," he finally said, needing to break the moment between himself and Enjolras. "We succeeded." The plastic flower pot felt flimsy in his hands. He regretted his choice of words as soon as he felt, rather than saw, Enjolras close himself up. His eyes lost their sadness and his expression schooled itself into a blank one. Had he looked any paler, Grantaire thought he would pass for dead.

"You think I care about who was right or wrong? That I'll gloat now and say 'I told you so'?"

"No!" Grantaire rushed to place the flower down at the foot of Bahorel's grave next to Enjolras' bouquet. "Nothing like that. Only you were right in that certain matters must take place for progress to advance itself. If there was one thing I didn't care for regarding revolutions, it would be the loss of life, but you must condemn me even for that since the loss of life I'd be referring to would be that of my friends. My friends are everything to me, you see. What else have I left in my world? I work now, yes, but I didn't back then. I survived on my allowance and what a petty allowance it was. Still, it allowed me my drinking which granted me more than enough of an excuse to speak with my friends, but now they are out of the cafe and into the streets and it hurts that they rarely come by to sit and discuss matters, even matters so ridiculous as politics. They don't come to say, hullo Capital R, what's on your agenda today? Because they're busy with their own lives and I cannot fault them for that, only that sometimes I thought we would never truly age. But no, it is more than that, as sometimes I thought we were within a perpetual wave of motion, that time would stop for us, and whether we won or lost a revolution, we would always return to the same dwelling where you would speak, and they would discuss, and I would have my little cornerstone, my spot in the dark, where I would drink and sometimes I would listen, though admittedly not too often. Ah, but those days were wonderful, were they not? Now I am involved in my job but I am not respectable. What a laugh, isn't it? Myself, a respectable man about town! It would be a fine day for me to turn into something like that. No, a job is a job and I believe I am one of the first of my kind to embark upon such an occupation, but that is all right. The government leaves me in peace, particularly now when free speech may become a thing of the present rather than the future, but you know all of that. I am using liberties I never fought for, but that is all right, isn't it? So many people are using such liberties and they never emerged from their homes to follow in your cause, but that's probably because they never heard your voice. And now here you are, paying homage, and I? I stand before you trying to speak of matters that I know little about, even though I do know you, Enjolras, and that you do not care for such trifling matters as what's become of myself, but I can't fault you on that. No one can. You have loftier pursuits and I wouldn't dream of dragging you do-"

"Enough, Grantaire." Enjolras looked away, delicate fingers rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"I speak too much. Sometimes I don't know when to stop myself. Are they nerves? It is not alcohol. I haven't touched a drop yet today." Grantaire, embarrassed and clearly frazzled, tried to turn to a different subject. "You're bleeding. Allow me to take you home."

And then he was surprised when Enjolras granted him that concession. He supposed his company was better than no one's and yet Enjolras kept his silence.

Enjolras had remained within his mind throughout the month and two weeks he kept himself away. Grantaire didn't have to avoid Enjolras. Enjolras never came to the Musain and he had only recently set to taking classes. When Grantaire slept at night, he wondered about the man. He wondered about himself. A revolution, finished and over, and what would Enjolras do with himself? Would he continue to soar? Would he continue to exist?

And what sort of purgatory was it that he existed within? Work became almost a relief to Grantaire as he could focus on his job, in his carving and sketches rather than on a man he knew so much about and yet could not bring himself to see. He had witnessed Enjolras injured before, but they had been light wounds, nothing severe, and the redness of his blood reminded Grantaire that his statue could potentially be killed one day.

Enjolras was not dead but he was walking a thin line between life and death mentally if not physically. It pained Grantaire. It wounded him to the core, and while he had thought about how Enjolras may look, seeing him in person served to drive home the fact that Enjolras was in dire straits.

His bird had been crippled. But it still chirped, he knew. It still hopped about on two legs. Could still sing its sweet song. The wings had to be mended, that was all. Would he snap the bird's neck instead of nursing it back to health? He could not be so cruel. The destruction of the bird would ensure that it would never soar again.

And perhaps, just perhaps, once those wings had mended, the bird may grant the toad a flight.

So Grantaire made up his mind to swallow his inhibitions and to visit Enjolras after checking in at Bahorel's grave.

Fate had other plans. Grantaire desired to put this down as luck and was determined to see it as such. Regardless of how Enjolras may look. It was always bad within the storm, Grantaire knew. He need only suffer through it in order to get to the center of the hurricane.

So he ascended Enjolras' stairs with him, intending on dropping Enjolras off and making a quick run to Combeferre's. Nevermind that he and Combeferre still didn't see eye to eye, but at the mention of Enjolras' name, Combeferre would come running to him.

The door opened before Enjolras could get out his key. Combeferre stood on the other end, startling Grantaire. Enjolras accepted it easily, putting the key back in his pocket and entering. Combeferre hesitated with Grantaire.

"He's bleeding," Grantaire said, hoping this would be enough to gain him admittance. It worked. Combeferre was instantly moving after Enjolras, asking short questions about his injuries. Grantaire followed, shutting the door behind him.

This was important to the recovery process, Grantaire knew. A splint for those wings.

His thoughts, however, were decidedly less metaphorical and certainly less pure as he watched Combeferre methodically undress the other man. He felt as though he should look away, that this wasn't right. Enjolras was injured and he had been violated in some of the worst ways a man could be, and Grantaire wished he could turn off his baser impulses. But one can't carry a torch for another for close to a decade and expect a switch to be flipped, so he held his guilt and perversions in the same hand.

Enjolras shifted just slightly when Combeferre set to taking off the bandages, making Combeferre pause in his ministrations. His eyes searched Enjolras' and Grantaire wondered if they were doing their little communication thing. He never fully understood that, the slight touches, the looks. His world was dictated by words, sometimes harsh, sometimes slurred. He devoted endless amounts of time in the study of Enjolras, enough to know countless twitches and shifts and gestures, but there was a double meaning to every movement when he was with Combeferre, and it was the hidden expressions that Grantaire couldn't grasp.

Combeferre finally nodded and stripped off his own waistcoat, shirt, and cravat, and Grantaire's world felt a little more confused. Was this a normal practice? But no, he saw Enjolras' shoulders relax just a bit and his gaze drift over Combeferre's skin, not with lust but something like appreciation and sadness, and it was a confined sadness, not the panicky sort Grantaire had seen earlier.

Part of the healing process, he grasped.

Well, if it would help Enjolras…

"What are you doing?"

Combeferre's voice came as soon as Grantaire's waistcoat hit the ground, his fingers stilled against the white linen wrapped around Enjolras' torso.

"Helping," Grantaire replied as he fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, letting out a triumphant, if soft, hah! as soon as he got them all.

"That's not exactly what-what is that on your chest?"

Unlike Combeferre's untouched skin, Grantaire had a marking on the skin above his heart. It was done in perfect curlicues. Black ink that spelled out Enjolras' name. "It's his name," Grantaire responded, nonchalently.

"It's upside down."

"Yes, it is! So when I look down, I can see it staring back up at me. Only when I have my shirt off, that is."

In truth, he had been quite drunk when he reached for his stencil. Drunk on hard wine and drunk on the thought of Enjolras never soaring again. He wanted a memento of days that had been lost, and he needed a reminder of the one that brought him such a mixture of joy and pain. Not that he would be telling any of that to Combeferre.

Combeferre, who was giving him a rather confused look right now, and Enjolras, who was looking a bit intrigued despite himself.

"It's my job," Grantaire explained. "I'm an artist of a different caliber. I do not draw on regular canvas anymore, save for examples to show off my work. I follow in the traditions of old, of mythologies and histories lost in the past, except for in our minds and in the history books. But there are quite a few that prevailed, and their art is rarely lost. That's one thing I learned while studying, you see. Governments are always being changed, always torn down as relics from the past. But art? Art thrives on, changing very little except in terms of can be considered art. These days, we'll even relegate an Egyptian tome as art and say that it must be preserved! And I fully believe it ought to be. Let us preserve those animal heads and raging erections so that the entire world can see what they saw and revered back then. Let the world see the art of the Greek and Roman statues. Art captures everyone at their most elegant, from a minor discus player to a stately senator. We see the human body in its untouched state, but we also see the fantastical, that which we want to believe is true. I enjoy art, I'll have you know, but it's also very cold to me. It tempts and it mocks with its playfulness. It lets you know what you're missing because you'll never resemble a Greek statue. Well, I won't at least."

He gestured at Enjolras. "But you will, and not any of us can share in such things. Not least of which are my clientele who love and revel in art in their own way. They're unafraid of turning it into a reality. So they come to me and I stencil in designs upon their skin and turn them into living works of art. Maybe not all of them, of course. In some areas I just refuse to touch, but upon their arm or leg or back, certainly! And yes even here." He touched Enjolras' name. "I believe myself to be far more beautiful with this. It's merely a name, but ah, what it represents to me! And what symbols may represent to others! You go on about the abstract. Well, I have made the abstract real!"

With this exclamation, Grantaire, in a fit of exuberance, threw open his arms, welcoming any sort of belittlement.

None came.

Combeferre hid a smile. Enjolras accepted with a nod. "It suits you," said the blond, and Grantaire felt the sun finally start to shine once again. He put his arms down as Combeferre turned back toward Enjolras and finished undressing the bandages.

Grantaire was careful to hide his shock, though he felt tears spring to his eyes. It wasn't the burns that made him ill. It wasn't the discolored, still healing skin. There was no infection to be seen that made the wounds unbearable.

He had spoken before of tattooing. He did his work with needles and so he knew firsthand their effects. He knew of the pain that some could cause. But at the same time, he knew of the permanent condition of the tattoos he created.

This particular carving on Enjolras had been done with a knife and his heart sank a bit when he realized that the wound would be forever seared into his skin. Words failed him as too many thoughts rushed within his head.

The bird may never fly again.

Enjolras woke up every morning, knowing this was on his body.

What was looking in the mirror like for him now?

Thank all the gods for the bandages.

The word on Grantaire's chest made him feel better. Carved across Enjolras' chest was quite a different word. A reminder of the night that Grantaire had never witnessed. A reminder to Enjolras.

'SLUT'


	8. Chapter Eight

**Combeferre**

He holds himself rigidly, Combeferre notes out of the corner of his eye. Yet Grantaire didn't run out of the room when he saw the full extent of the damage. Combeferre is used to the markings, to the words, and the careful withdraw of Enjolras when everything is exposed. Combeferre was as gentle as he could be as he stopped the bleeding. It was only a small opening of an old scar.

"How did it happen?"

"I did it myself."

Not the answer Combeferre had been expecting but he knew better than to look disappointed or upset. "Don't do it again." Such an answer deserved more questions, more statements beginning with 'Why are you trying to hurt yourself?' and ending with 'I think you need more help than I can give you.' But that kind of help Enjolras would refuse and Combeferre wasn't so sure he trusted their methods.

It helped that it was a small cut.

It also helped that Enjolras filled in the blanks.

"I was at Bahorel's grave. I was overcome."

On any other day, Combeferre would have embraced his friend. He wasn't normally so personable. Akin to Enjolras in his acceptance of smaller movements rather than grand gestures. But he felt that called for more than just a smile and a light touch on the arm.

Grantaire came closer, making sure to stay in Enjolras' sight throughout.

"Brutal, is it not?"

The question surprised both Combeferre and Grantaire for different reasons. Combeferre hadn't thought Enjolras would speak about his injuries and Grantaire had no good answer in mind.

"I don't think I've seen worse," Grantaire finally replied. "Makes me wish I'd have done something."

Enjolras merely shrugged. Combeferre busied himself with the bandages. "What did you do instead?" It wasn't an accusation. Enjolras spoke like a man condemned who wanted to torture himself a bit more by listening to the recounts of his victims.

"Slept. I was too damn drunk to know what was going on. I slept until we won, and even after that things are a bit foggy."

There was a twitch in Enjolras' hand and Combeferre realized the importance of Grantaire's statement even before it sank into Enjolras' head. Grantaire did not witness anything. Grantaire didn't see anything.

And Enjolras, for the first time in over a month, lashed out. "You see it now, do you not? You see this? This is deserved! This is-"

And promptly shot down.

"That is not deserved!" And Grantaire was abruptly looming and angry though the rage came dead on against the wall of Enjolras' wrath. "That is not deserved," Grantaire repeated, now in Combeferre's way, his face so close to Enjolras'. "That is the ignorance of men who couldn't take you down with words or even guns, so they just tried to carve you out of the shell you use as a body! Not deserved!"

Combeferre strongly considered getting in-between the two of them. He had never heard Grantaire use such a tone with Enjolras before, and he wasn't sure if this was what Enjolras needed to hear. No, surely it wouldn't be useful. The last thing Enjolras could handle was more anger.

And yet Enjolras held Grantaire's gaze steadily. "You know nothing."

"I know you."

Grantaire did not grab for any part of Enjolras. He made certain not to touch him at all. His rage wasn't with Enjolras, wasn't reserved for him. And he wasn't even angry at the words coming out between them.

Combeferre watched the display, one hand on Enjolras' arm not to distract him, but as a safety measure.

"Think you can assuage me with words alone?" Enjolras bit back. "Trying to heal me now?" Yet his tone wasn't derisive. He was angry, yes, but even in that emotion, there was sincerity.

"No. Not with words alone. You can be very obstinate." Yet the word was affectionate. "But when it comes to what you deserve, neither I nor our friends nor anyone else think that you deserved this."

"You were asleep."

"And I'm awake now!"

"You didn't see!"

"I'm seeing now!"

And then it was over and Enjolras looked away first, the energy leaving him quickly, and Combeferre understood why.

In many ways, the hibernation within the flat had been another punishment to Enjolras. The man possessed a mind that was as sharp and quick as a rapier. Left without some form of outlet, something to do and see, his mind continued to spin and turn, going through countless information that was now to be set aside since the revolution was over, and focusing on the details of the night. He would live the horrors of what had happened to him over and over again because his mind had little recourse. Information could be brought to him, but it was of little comfort since he wasn't able to do anything with it.

Enjolras, in many ways, could be his own worst enemy. Thinking himself into a rut because he couldn't let go of an idea that didn't make him feel any better, but did give himself something of a purpose. The notion that he had to rectify his mistake, the thought of forgiveness. It was something he held precious and close to himself. It was what kept him going.

It was also what could destroy him, and Combeferre wasn't blinded by the fact that Enjolras would not choose such a path, but self-destruction was a tricky thing, and Enjolras was used to finding backroads and paths that were never so straightforward. He was used to thinking as a revolutionary, subversive, quiet, hiding, and finding ways around an obstacle. His mind was, in itself, a maze and all roads could theoretically lead to Rome.

If Rome was his demise, a chance to rest, than his mind would comply with such a demand. A person didn't always need a weapon to die, or the ability to walk into a river or to step in front of a racing fiacre. Sometimes the demise came slower, gradual, building up into a crescendo of the most quiet chaos inside oneself.

Enjolras, used to double-meanings, was using them upon himself constantly. Combeferre couldn't stop him from doing so. Neither could Grantaire or Courfeyrac or any of them. The only one who could stop such a thought process was Enjolras, and that was only if he chose to do so. Which would mean acknowledging that he was steadily eating away at himself, even if it was practically subconscious in action.

Grantaire spoke to him now and Enjolras picked up on his own double-meaning. Grantaire stood before him, still and self-contained, but the moment Enjolras had loooked away, his expression turned gentle and soft.

It almost made him look handsome.

"I see you now," Grantaire spoke, his words softer than before and yet louder for it.

Combeferre's fingers gently stroked Enjolras' arm. "Grantaire?"

Grantaire slowly turned his gaze to him. Combeferre didn't return it. His focus remained on Enjolras. "I didn't bring any dinner. If you would be so good as to bring some food back for the three of us?" This was the first breakthrough Combeferre had seen in awhile. He wouldn't do Grantaire the discourtesy of pushing him out now.

Grantaire picked up on that while realizing that there was little else he can do here. Combeferre would replace the bandages and he didn't want to be in the way.

Combeferre gave him some funds and Grantaire was soon out the door. The medication was applied with a steady hand. "You've been going to classes."

"With Courfeyrac. You'd be proud of him."

"I am." And he was. He'd never seen Courfeyrac so diligent. "You could easily sit for the bar once it comes around."

"I know."

"Is that your intended goal?"

Enjolras shrugged. "It is something, I suppose."

"I've never known you to disregard the injustices done to people. This regime is new, but it's not perfect. Quite a few good politicians were lawyers first. Showing the people that they cared."

Enjolras' hand shot out and clasped Combeferre around the wrist. Combeferre immediately halted in his motion.

"E4," says Enjolras.

Combeferre, normally so quick on the draw, knows what this means but he was shocked to hear it. They hadn't played in years, and it had been Combeferre who had taught Enjolras the intricacies of the game.

After the rules had been explained, their first game was conceded in just a few moves. Enjolras preferring a quick strategy of moving his larger pieces into a short struggle. Combeferre's way of playing the game differed vastly as he preferred taking his time and drawing out his opponent. Enjolras, back then, had needed little provocation and he'd lost the game.

He took it well and all but demanded they try again.

The game continued throughout their childhood, Combeferre coming out on top each time, but every victory felt harder than the last. There was a satisfaction that crept through his body each time Enjolras took one of his black pieces off the board, and yet there was still that impulsive streak that Combeferre hoped to whittle into something a bit more lucrative.

He loved to watch Enjolras think just as much as he enjoyed plying his friend with books upon books of subversive material. Anything he could get his hands on became a shared pastime for the two of them.

Enjolras adapted. Understood. Conceded when he was wrong and then watched Combeferre like a hawk.

And when Enjolras won his first game against Combeferre, Combeferre knew that his own victories were likely at an end when it came to chess, and yet they were just beginning in life.

"What did you do differently there?" He asked Enjolras after the win.

"I learned the value of pawns."

Combeferre couldn't explain just why he finally felt that glimmer of hope for the future become a raging, unstoppable torrent. He just suddenly knew that they would win in their own time.

They hadn't played for years due to their busy schedule and the upcoming revolution. But when they had stopped, the two of them had memorized just about every move, every position, every square on the board.

"c5." What could he do but respond in kind. At least it got Enjolras thinking, and if it meant a change in Enjolras' thoughts, Combeferre would gladly provide. He set about working on the bandages as Enjolras released his hand.

"Nf3."

"Nc6."

"d4."

"cxd4." This also had a rather singular effect on Combeferre as he too found himself swept away in his own mind, envisioning the board between them, the pieces sliding across the board. They had been younger in body but not in mind.

"Nxd4." Enjolras watched him steadily, for once not looking numb while Combeferre worked. There was a spark in his mind, a chance to envision something aside from the darkness that he had been stuck within for so long. Even something so simple as a chess board could begin a milestone of images.

"Nf6."

"Nc3."

When Grantaire arrived back at the flat, arms bearing groceries, he couldn't help but overhear their strange conversation. Knowing better than to interrupt, perhaps out of a desire to keep Combeferre from reneging on his statement of letting him stay for dinner, or because this was the first bit of life he had seen within Enjolras' eyes since he saw him again, he busied himself in preparing the food.

"g6." Combeferre barely heard Grantaire come inside, though he did soon smell what the man was cooking. He worked the buttons of Enjolras' shirt slowly, not wanting to stop this game.

Be3." Apparently Enjolras had no desire to halt it either as he didn't try to bat Combeferre's hands away as he did whenever he thought his friend was doing too much.

"Bb7."

"f3."

"0-0. King-side castle." And even though Combeferre has lost this round, he feels that he has won once again.

In the next room, Grantaire can swear he hears the fluttering of wings.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crying over the comments. I love you guys.

**Courfeyrac**

If there was one place that Grantaire could not reach Enjolras, it was through classes. Enjolras insisted on keeping up with them, even if he did look like a pale zombie through some of the earlier lessons. The classes that didn't have Courfeyrac within them felt exhausting. The professors didn't ask much of Enjolras, which was part of the problem.

The Republic was in place and the laws were certainly changing. At the same time, a few rules were slow to change. A constitution being drawn up was one of the slower aspects of a new form of government. Much of it was trial and error. They couldn't toss out all of the old doctrines and invite anarchy.

Unfortunately, university professors had to struggle to catch up with the changing times, and not all of them were keeping up that adequately. A few clung to the antique, dead set in their ways, and remained determined to teach their students the right way to draw up appeals.

Enjolras' pen hesitated a few times, soaking in the inkwell, as he felt torn between making a remark and keeping his head down. He felt nauseated by his own cowardice, but at the same time he couldn't bear to handle so much attention settled upon him. He doubted his ability to speak clearly should the professor take him to task.

This doubt festered in his mind, scraping at the corners of his brain because it was quite unbearable. He had never encountered such weakness within himself, had worked painstakingly at relying on the logic at hand, at his vision for the future, and at being able to speak around any sort of argument or go right for the proverbial jugular. It was not in him to doubt and he wasn't sure how to handle the feeling when applied to himself. He could convince a friend to endorse higher self-esteem, but his own speeches to his brain sounded off-kilter. Dry. Used up.

The more he berated himself, the worse he got until he was utterly silent in his class with Courfeyrac. Not even his pen scratched across the surface of his paper.

Courfeyrac noticed the quiet far more often than he noticed any noise. Enjolras was always naturally self-reserved, and had long since adopted an air of near-silent stoicism when it came to subjects that didn't appeal to him. But his gaze was always drawn downwards, or there was that aura about his person that indicated he wasn't just disinterested, he was off in his own personal haze.

Right now, it seemed as though Enjolras was far too grounded in reality for his own good.

He reached out to touch Enjolras' arm but stopped short. Since that night of his own breakdown, Courfeyrac had been careful around his friend. He smiled. He said hello. He engaged in polite discourse because he was unsure just how far he could go. He knew he was floundering at a point where Enjolras needed him, but Enjolras had pulled back at the same time as Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac had the sensation of a tug-of-war happening between them, either one trying to shift the other into a sort of reaction. Enjolras, doing so almost passively, and Courfeyrac, actively waiting for some sort of sign that there was something he could do.

Telling Enjolras that he was loved, that he was worthy of being happy, that he was there for him were things Courfeyrac would have loved to do. But he wasn't certain if Enjolras could take that sort of speech. The words could backfire and he'd be left with a disbelieving Enjolras who saw in Courfeyrac an obvious deception. Courfeyrac was normally so outgoing and genuine in his affections, but he was not without his little white lies to try and cheer people up. This wasn't a bad trait at all to have as Courfeyrac's intentions were forever in the right place. He wanted everyone to be as pleased as he was in the normal case of a day. Likewise, when he wanted to rile people up, he wanted them to be just as angry as he was capable of being.

Right now, he was caught between trying to make Enjolras comfortable and trying to make himself feel secure. He was certain that one would certainly lead to the other, but neither way presented to him a clear enough path.

Still, the silence was starting to physically hurt.

"Bad day?" He whispered. Enjolras was now consistently choosing to place himself nearer the back of the classroom as opposed to the front where he used to keep himself. Courfeyrac thought that was done solely to intimidate the professor.

To prove that he wasn't afraid when he stood up and devastated the lesson with cold, infallible logic.

Now Enjolras kept to himself and Courfeyrac stayed with him in the shadows because if he couldn't help bring his friend up into the light, he certainly wouldn't be leaving him behind in the dark.

Enjolras shrugged, which wasn't an answer at all, but at least his pen started moving.

"There's something I'd like to talk to you about concerning the future," Courfeyrac continued, unwilling to let the silence linger. "Do you have time after class? Let me buy you lunch. No, wait, it's too late for that. Dinner? Too early for that. Oh, some meal between the two." He waved flippantly and felt a little disappointed that he didn't manage to get a smile from his friend.

"Fine."

One word, but at least it told Courfeyrac that Enjolras was willing. It so unnerved him to see his friend in the shadows, proverbial as they were. It made the rest of the day's classes rather torturous.

When they finally got outside, the sun was still out which Courfeyrac welcomed with wide open arms. "Doesn't it feel good to be out of there? I have to say, I now know exactly what was meant by the phrase 'contaminated air'. They're all sycophants of the old times, and doesn't that feel good to say out loud? No fear of reprisals. No quick duck and cover from a gendarme passing by, or risk having a pear-loving student to oust me as a rebel!"

Enjolras hung back, keeping himself away from Courfeyrac's flailing arms. "It's not perfect."

Three words this time! Courfeyrac thought this to be a vast improvement. "Of course it isn't, but that's why France has us, right? And this ties in to what I wanted to tell you about." Again, he reached out to take Enjolras' arm as was his habit, yet he pulled back right before his fingertips graced Enjolras' coat sleeve. he looked down, feeling a little awkward for a few seconds before beaming back up at Enjolras, attempting to regain momentum. "Let us be off!"

He hailed a fiacre and gave the directions to a nearby restaurant. He didn't want to step foot in a cafe with Enjolras just yet. Too many bad memories would be stirred.

Enjolras maintained his silence throughout the ride and while Courfeyrac paid the driver, his gaze stayed upturned, his eyes shut as he turned toward the sun. He could feel himself absorbing the heat, but it did nothing for his thoughts which still felt frozen in time. The light typically cast a reflection upon his inner musings, emphasizing what was needed in this day and age, illuminating the path in which they all must walk in order to better progress. Without light, people groped blindly, stumbling along the path, and were lucky if they weren't turned around in doing so. Too many traps waited in the dark.

Courfeyrac let Enjolras have his peace and felt a bit more disconcerted when Enjolras finally reopened his eyes and absolutely nothing had changed. There were no words of wisdom, there was no shift of expression, no lightness to his friend's eyes. There was only a near stagnancy that bothered Courfeyrac tremendously, and he wondered if now would be a good time to speak to Enjolras about matters concerning the future.

Yet it also bolstered his decision. What better time to give his friend hope than when hope seemed so far off?

He led Enjolras into the restaurant and it didn't take long for them to be seated.

Courfeyrac ordered for them both, knowing Enjolras' tastes just as keenly as he knew his own. Striving for others' comforts required that he be decisive when it came to knowing the quirks of his guests, his companions, and his friends. This was but a minor thing for him as his mind handled small social matters, filing them into a personal databank for later usage. He would never have need of a small black book.

Excited now by his own ideas and wanting to know how Enjolras would take to them, he couldn't help tapping on the table with his fork after he had ordered, or of his leg twitching a bit underneath the table. He blamed this partly to nerves as he truly wasn't sure how Enjolras would react, but he was trying and surely Enjolras would be able to see that.

Enjolras, who wasn't blind, was all too aware of Courfeyrac's excitement. He made a gesture of waving his hand. "Proceed."

"I've been considering the future for myself. You'd be rather proud of me, but you've been a big part of it. In order to get you to go to classes, I've been attending them as well. I'm sure you've already noticed that." When Courfeyrac had an idea, he tended to emphasize its background, wanting his friends to know the entire thought process that went into molding his cleverness. "We live in a Republic now, you see, and you and I and Bossuet to a lesser extent have been well-versed in the laws both for the monarchy, which is now a thing of the past, to the laws that ought to be remolded in a republic. The Rights of Man made into doctrines and laws. The reshaping of how the people ought to be defended."

The waitress came with their order and Courfeyrac paused in his conversation to wink at her. She left their table blushing.

Enjolras picked at his food, gently stabbing the meat with his fork.

Courfeyrac, undeterred, went on. "When it comes around again, I intend to sit for the bar."

Enjolras looked up from his plate, clearly surprised and trying to find a hidden punchline within Courfeyrac's face. After awhile when no other words were forthcoming, he spoke. "You're kidding."

"I'm not. I intend to finish up my studies and sit for the bar. Laigle says he'll give it his best attempt as well. He may have the devil's own luck, but he has Joly on his side and Joly would be able to ground him quite thoroughly in law books if necessary." Courfeyrac took into account the shadow that crossed Enjolras' features at the mention of Joly's name. He had no intention of inquiring about whatever happened right now.

Enjolras' gaze shifted from Courfeyrac's face to a few of the other tables in the restaurant. What he saw of the customers, Courfeyrac wasn't sure. Perhaps he wasn't even looking at them, merely figuring out his own piece of the puzzle. Sure enough, it didn't take long for it to pop into place.

"You want me to sit for it as well." It wasn't a question.

"We would. Myself and Bossuet. Let's be honest with ourselves here, Enjolras. Classes are practically a joke to you. You know the law inside and out. You've seen injustices done. You've practically schooled us all on the merits of which laws are justified and which laws are rubbish. You not only know the need for change, you also know how to make things change."

"And what good would that do?" Enjolras asked, finally turning his head to look at Courfeyrac. "Pass the bar and then what? Write long-winded letters to the newspapers? To the deputies? Classify each and every law that ought to be shifted, reworded, or removed altogether? I could do that without sitting for the bar. I could do that now."

"Yes, but you couldn't defend the people right now. It's our intention to open up our own firm," Courfeyrac finally finished. He sat back in his chair, arms crossed just a bit, and looking ever so proud of himself. Even Enjolras' hesitant look didn't dampen his enthusiasm.

"A firm of three newly ordained lawyers," Enjolras started, "without a reputation."

"We have a reputation…of a sort," Courfeyrac shot back. "We're revolutionaries. Your name is well known by the people, I have social contacts, and, once again, Laigle has Joly who knows a great deal of the once-oppressed but still in dire straits people who frequent his clinics. I don't think it would be hard to build a clientele. Much less when we start winning all of our cases. Your insane vast knowledge of law, my dramatics, and Laigle's remorseless counter-arguments. Can't you just see it? We'd make a perfect team!"

Enjolras couldn't deny their strengths. This was hardly a mere fantasy. There had been a day when he was serious about his studies, intending to pass the bar, and then move on with his chosen career. If he couldn't have his revolution or would have to wait for it to come to pass, he could try to help the abased in other ways. Doing pro-bono work had always been a second option for him. But then the barricades came and the bar felt a million miles away.

It still did feel like something so distant. He could barely see himself in another year, let alone building his own future once more. To start looking ahead, however, wasn't that what he wanted to do?

Perhaps he needed to know that life still went on, that he had a path to follow, and only then could he extend that path to the future of France, and possibly the world. The inevitable march of human progress included himself, and if he couldn't see just one person, the one person that he was so very close to, then how could he see others?

Between himself and Courfeyrac, they would have the money to start up a firm, one that was wholly devoted to the people. A future that would allow him to spend time with friends, to work with them, to etch out truths with them while protecting the disenfranchised of Paris.

He wanted this for himself, while at the same time he had to speculate whether or not he was worthy of being in such a trio. "You've discussed this with Laigle?"

"Of course. He's in full agreement with me."

"Including the part about my inclusion?"

Courfeyrac paused and was mindful not to frown. "He asked for you by name, Enjolras. He thinks we would be without an anchor were it not for you. 'Sign up Enjolras, Courfeyrac', he said, 'or I think we'd end up setting fire to the judges.' I have to say, I'm in agreement."

Enjolras was contemplative. "And if I don't manage to pass the bar?"

"If your brain gives up then we'll wait for you." Courfeyrac leaned forward, his hand moving slowly across the table as he took the chance and touched his fingers to Enjolras'. "You are crucial to us. You've always been so."

All the same, to include him in such a way. Enjolras tried to push down the self-beration, the feeling of unworthiness at standing beside such men. He was alternately proud of them and wishing they knew better than to invite him into such a commitment. They clearly didn't feel betrayed, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to dash that hope and accept the condemnation or take up the offer. He swallowed hard around a sudden lump in his throat. "I should-" He paused to collect himself. "I should give it some thought."

"Give it as much time as you need. The bar is in two months."

Enjolras nodded.

As they left the restaurant, the sun was setting and Enjolras watched as the last rays vanished slowly into the distance. Courfeyrac stood nearby, watching and waiting. Hoping, really, even while he knew that the absence of the sun wouldn't help Enjolras' mood.

"Do you remember the night we had at the cafe?" Enjolras asked, his voice soft.

All too well, Courfeyrac thought. "Yes."

"You wept."

"Yes, well, you were breaking my heart," Courfeyrac countered, hoping his words weren't too harsh.

"You also embraced me."

Without knowing it, Courfeyrac held his breath.

"I enjoyed that," Enjolras finished, turning his head a little to look at Courfeyrac.

That was all it took for Courfeyrac to abruptly draw Enjolras into a warm embrace. His carefulness was only reserved for any residual wounds or pain, and he managed to not put any pressure against Enjolras' chest. He kissed his friend's cheeks before hugging him again, unwilling to let go despite the spectacle they made.

It only took a few seconds until Enjolras' arms were around Courfeyrac's body. Enjolras did not weep. Courfeyrac wasn't sobbing this time either, though a few tears did end up against Enjolras' shoulder.

"Say yes," Courfeyrac whispered. "For your own good. For my good. For Laigle's good, and for the good of the people. Say yes." Perhaps it was cruel to use Enjolras' feelings in such a way, but at the same time Courfeyrac was now utterly convinced that this was what Enjolras needed. Something more than a distraction. He needed a new form of normalcy, a branch to rest his wings, something to look forward to and later on, something to come home to. A chance to reclaim his own future.

"Yes."

Courfeyrac laughed and forgetting his own carefulness, found himself picking up the lithe figure and swinging him about in a short circle before setting him down again only to embrace him tighter, his head buried against Enjolras' coat.

Absurdly delighted, he noted that Enjolras smelled of sunlight, and the thought made him laugh, the sound muffled against Enjolras' shoulder.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Joly**

Their first case had Enjolras internally nervous. Courfeyrac had briefed him fully. Bossuet had given him a smile, and then he was putting on a show for the judge and jury. He spoke with confidence and precision, knowing that he'd always have such gifts, that he could be forceful, make them believe in the truth that he encompassed. Make them believe this because if they didn't, a life was on the line.

Granted, this was smaller in scope as compared to what he used to do, but speaking out to a smaller group of people felt less restricting. The people were here because they wanted to be convinced of something. They wanted to believe either innocent or guilty, and their minds could be changed.

Nothing was set in stone. He wasn't dealing with an angry mob. He could speak freely, not have to watch what he said, and for a few minutes, he felt what Courfeyrac had felt before. This was what freedom felt like.

And for just a few minutes in that courtroom, he was soaring.

"Objection!"

His momentum halted as Enjolras paused in his speech, mental wheels turning. Did he hit a snag somewhere?

"I object on the grounds of this man. What does he know about freedom?"

The rest of the speech sizzled out within his head. Enjolras didn't dare turn his head to regard his own persecutor.

"Objection sustained." The judge leaned over his pedestal to regard Enjolras. "You shouldn't be speaking at all. You went against liberty. You betrayed your country."

Enjolras stepped back, shaking his head. "I didn't mean to - it wasn't like that.." But there was nothing he could say that dismissed the truth. Bossuet turned his head away while Courfeyrac looked so disappointed. "Please," Enjolras said to no one, even though he had the impression that he was speaking to himself. "Please, another chance! Let me have another chance!"

But the barricade was fallen and the Republic was restored. He was lost in what to do and the sea of faces who had once hung on his every word now looked to him with scorn and derision.

"It wasn't my fault!"

Their faces changed into those of his attackers, their outfits becoming uniforms. They shifted together, becoming one mass flood of people that swarmed over him, and he could feel the knife, the fire, the various fluids that they tried to drown him within, and the humiliation and grief that he couldn't relinquish.

When they parted, he was left a bleeding wreck. Tears threatened to fall as he hoisted himself off the ground. Within his mind, he can see the distant world of the abstract start to emerge, still pitch black, but there were some parts within it that called out to him.

The light of the sun came down against the floor. Enjolras yearned to move into it, to crawl into it if need be, but it was already occupied.

Bahorel stared up at him, his eyes sad. "Why didn't you save me?"

Enjolras jolted awake, draped in a cold sweat, one hand clutched firmly on the covers. He immediately felt another presence in the room and looked over at Grantaire, who was still sitting in his chair but his lower body was upon Enjolras' bed. His arms cradled his head while he lay there, his eyes slightly open.

Despite his close proximity, he looked like the most unintimidating man Enjolras had ever seen.

"I heard you in the other room," Grantaire said as he lifted his head. He rubbed any residual sleep out of his eyes. "You were crying out."

Enjolras wiped away some of the sweat from his forehead. "Just a dream."

"I know. Still, I was hoping my presence could cheer you up. Combeferre once said that you could talk to comatose patients and they would hear your voice. They may not understand what you're saying, but your voice would pull them back a little."

"I wasn't comatose."

"What is sleep if not going into something of a coma? Can you imagine if we had to explain to someone who never slept what sleeping actually is; from the action to the cause of? Who would believe it?" Getting more invigorated with each word that passed through his lips, Grantaire gave Enjolras a smile. "It's when the body lays down and goes into a static position for multiple hours in the night. It responds to very little, unconscious of the world. The brain alternately shuts down and speeds up. The person sometimes will hallucinate either beautiful or terrible imagery. Then suddenly the body switches back into its active stance and the person goes on as normal. And chooses to do it all again the next night."

Enjolras glanced at Grantaire. The small smile that toyed at the corner of his mouth gave Grantaire enough confidence to reach out and push away a strand of Enjolras' hair behind his ear.

"Perhaps you have dreamed too much," he said, his voice descending to a soft whisper. He couldn't outright state just how scared he had felt when Enjolras had been tossing and turning, grappling with the covers, and crying out. There were no precise words, which left Grantaire thankful. What would words help in such a situation? He knew the general feeling of what was happening with Enjolras. The dream would be easy enough to decipher even if he didn't have the details. Nothing in Enjolras' life that Grantaire could see would make such a large impression save for that night.

He yearned to make things better, not just for Enjolras' sake but for his own. How could he possibly sleep knowing that in the next room, Enjolras was fighting a battle that he couldn't even watch let alone fight with him? Things had been getting better since he first stayed over at Enjolras' place. Combeferre had him talking more, and Enjolras had sounded almost eager when he told them of Courfeyrac's suggestion. It wasn't the enthusiasm that Grantaire had been hoping for, but he knew better than to expect the recovery to come at leaps and bounds.

Courfeyrac and Bossuet had granted him another lease on life, which absolved them a little in Grantaire's mind.

He hadn't been awake for that night. He had slept on in a drunken haze while Enjolras was violated in the worst way possible. It hadn't mattered to him that even if he had been awake there likely still wasn't anything he could do. It was still enough for him to give up drinking in repentance, a punishment that still made him nauseous and added to his restless sleep.

But the others?

They had been awake. Conscious of the screams. Did they count them? Did they try to stop Enjolras' suffering? There was precious little Grantaire heard about their reactions that day, but the fact that Enjolras had continued to be tormented while his friends stayed safe on the other side of the barricade did not sit well with him.

Not that he spoke of his feelings to anyone. The closest person who was there was Combeferre, and not only was the man putting Enjolras' physical recovery all on his shoulders, but he was forever in the earshot of Enjolras. Grantaire wasn't about to rage at Combeferre and chance upsetting Enjolras.

Enjolras had served his time. Had served all their times. He took enough onto himself, and it was because of doing so that his recovery wasn't progressing as quickly as it could. Grantaire could understand that. Enjolras just wouldn't be Enjolras if he laid the blame at another's feet.

It didn't mean that Grantaire had to like it.

So he slept over at Enjolras' place, making dinner for all three of them, and promised Combeferre that Enjolras would be safe with him. Combeferre allowed it because Enjolras allowed it. Enjolras allowed it because, deep down, he did feel safer with a guard. Grantaire also knew Enjolras well enough to think that Enjolras wasn't all that pleased with his fear.

Grantaire still took advantage and kept himself useful. He stayed out of Enjolras' way for the most part, but made sure his friend had something good to come home to, either a clean apartment or some food, or just a friend to talk to in case the day had been a particularly bad one. He wanted to make himself a fixture physically in Enjolras' life since he doubted he could make himself an emotional place of stability.

So on nights when Enjolras nearly shook the walls with his pleas or cries that never formed the word 'help', Grantaire was there by his side, keeping his head down because he didn't want Enjolras to wake up and be terrified of the looming figure that sat by his bedside.

The moments of vulnerability tugged on Grantaire's heart ferociously, and he ignored the feelings of doubt that plagued him. Enjolras would recover. He had seen it before. Nights like these or days in which Enjolras came home in silence were still coming, but they were growing further and further apart.

"I've been thinking about asking Combeferre for something to help me sleep," Enjolras admitted. "But to do so would be to worry him and I've little desire to have him monitor my condition when I'm unconscious. It's bad enough I presume upon him as much as I do."

Grantaire shrugged. "I doubt he sees it as presumption. He's a friend. Friends do things for friends. And you can't tell me that you wouldn't be there for him were your positions reversed."

"He would likely be far stronger if that was the case."

Highly doubtful, Grantaire thought.

"But I wouldn't wish this on anyone."

Grantaire clasped Enjolras' hand. "Then let me go and ask him and I'll make sure he won't inquire further about your case. If necessary, I can lie and tell him it's for me."

"I couldn't ask you to lie for me."

"You're not asking. See? Loophole. You'll soon be working with Courfeyrac and from what I hear, he's very good at finding them. You should talk more with me, Enjolras. You'll get very good at countering them."

This brought on another smile. "It will be nice to feel useful."

"You're always useful to me." Grantaire knew he shouldn't have told him that as he feared putting a bit more pressure on Enjolras' shoulders, but he wasn't accustomed to keeping his thoughts inside his mind. His tactfulness was probably the first to be eroded when he started drinking. "Probably not in ways you can see, but even like this, you're still a support. Just keep breathing, that's all I really need from you. Breathe and recover at your own pace. Ah, look at me. I'm rambling when you have spoken your need for something. Shows you what sort of friend I am! I tell you I need you and ignore your requests. Albeit, it wasn't truly a request, merely an offer I made, and you were kind enough to take me up on it."

"Grantaire?"

"That would be me."

And Enjolras paused because he wasn't expecting that sort of answer, so he just turned his head a little, but he was smiling so Grantaire's heart leapt. "You speak too much."

"You have little furniture within your apartment. I need to fill it with something. It may as well be my vocabulary." With that, Grantaire stood up. "You needn't sleep, of course, until I return. Ah, let me get you some books."

He only left Enjolras' flat when he was assured that Enjolras was comfortably set up with Thiers and one of Grantaire's fictional romance novels that he had borrowed long ago from Courfeyrac. He didn't think Enjolras would care at all about it, but better safe than sorry.

In the middle of his trip, Grantaire changed direction. Combeferre's place would take a good twenty minutes to walk to, whereas Joly's apartment would take considerably less.

It wasn't about miles, however, and Grantaire couldn't delude himself otherwise. It was about the simple fact that he hadn't seen Joly in a long time, and Joly hadn't tried to maintain any communication with Enjolras as far as Grantaire could tell. Courfeyrac and Bossuet were trying to give him a direction. Combeferre was trying to get him physically healthy. Feuilly was…well, Combeferre warned Grantaire not to bring up Feuilly to Enjolras and when Grantaire inquired, all Combeferre would say was that Feuilly made a vow.

"He'll come back when he's fulfilled that vow, but until then no news is good news for Feuilly."

Bahorel was dead. Jehan was, as far as Grantaire could see, sending flowers and continuous newspapers to Enjolras' place with the pertinent bits circled in red. He had gotten a job working as an editor of a paper, ironically the same one that had turned down his poetry before the revolution. His job kept him busy throughout the day, but he was still taking the time to send Enjolras what he thought Enjolras truly wanted.

Joly, on the other hand, maintained his distance and Grantaire wanted to know why. It wasn't his business on the one hand.

On the other hand, he was very angry.

He did not want to hold an irrational grudge. As far as he knew, Joly could have been injured as well, but not as badly as Enjolras so he was left to his own devices to recover because he had Bossuet and Musichetta to tend to him. There were many reasonable explanations for Joly's silence. So Grantaire pushed down his rage and calmly knocked on Joly's door.

Thankfully it was Joly who opened the door. Grantaire didn't really want to make demands of either Musichetta or Bossuet. All the same, Joly looked a little strung out, as though he hadn't been sleeping that well either.

"Hello," Grantaire volunteered.

Joly blinked warily at him. "Grantaire. What brings you here?"

"Enjolras isn't sleeping so well. I was hoping you had something to help?" Though looking at Joly now, Grantaire considered telling him that he should take a little of whatever he had as well. "I would've asked Combeferre, but he's across town and I didn't want to worry him. I'm supposed to be looking after Enjolras."

"Oh, of course. One moment." Joly left him by the door, not bothering to invite him inside. Grantaire took no offense. It was fairly early in the morning and he didn't want to wake up the other residents in Joly's place.

Joly soon returned with a small bottle. "Just place this in his drink. Goes well with tea. A few drops should be enough, but if he needs more, it's safe to give him a bit extra."

"Thank you. Oh! And are you feeling all right?"

Joly shrugged. "Early morning shift hours make sleeping a chore. That's all."

"That's good to hear." Grantaire pocketed the medicine. "I was thinking that maybe you were injured or something and that was why you couldn't come to call on Enjolras."

"I'm not injured," but the flatness of Joly's voice stated that he didn't care to continue the conversation. "Give him my regards."

With that, Joly moved to shut the door, and Grantaire acted on instinct. His foot wedged in the door and he ended up pushing the smaller man back into the apartment as he violently shoved the door open to allow for his wider frame. The leash on his anger had been snapped and he wasn't sure just what the final straw had been, either Joly's tone or the few cursory words he had for the man who had helped lead them to freedom.

"Our freedoms are hewn within his skin," Grantaire growled, looming over Joly. He knew he could be intimidating when pressed, but right now he was going more for fury than threatening. "He is quiet, withdrawn, and afraid. And you want me to give him your regards? When you're too busy hiding within your rooms, in your clinics, and within the breasts of your lover to do so yourself?"

Joly had stepped back, his face wasn't a mask of terror, in fact he looked more guilty than scared. "It isn't like that!"

"It shouldn't be like that!" Grantaire cried. "We are friends! We fought together! Or at least you and he did! You were there in 1830! You were there again in 1832! And do you know what you did, Joly? You did nothing while he was getting tortured! You may have sat in the damn Corinthe, attending the wounded, while listening to him scream. You probably even watched as he was raped! Ah, that made you flinch didn't it? Yes, I said it! The word is out there now, within your apartment, tainting your existence here! I'll say it again! He was raped violently, repeatedly! His skin will forever hold the markings of what they did to him that night! And you don't have the time or even the inclination to see him! Well, so be it! I can give you an update! He barely sleeps and often than not, he has nightmares. He eats little but at least he's since tried in order to mollify myself and Combeferre. I prepare him his meals because if left alone, he would probably feel too unworthy to eat! I watch Combeferre tend to his wounds and his eyes go dead whenever his bandages are removed, like he can't bear to be within his own body anymore. I speak to him of anything I can think of, topics he normally doesn't care about, and he'll answer me because he feels like he has to make up for past transgressions! Because he feels guilty for daring to upset you! There's your update, Joly! There's his status report! Aren't you glad that you don't have to see how much he suffers every day? Aren't you glad you can just stay in your quaint little home with your mistress and your lover and ignore the fact that you're part of the reason why he's so miserable?"

Grantaire had to pause to catch his breath. It used to be he could deliver long-winded speeches on everything and nothing, but without a drink to cool his throat, and the fact that he was far more passionate right now about his current subject, he had to pause.

Joly had stumbled over to the couch in the living room through his speech and sat down, his head in his hands. It was a look of distress that Grantaire wasn't used to seeing on Joly's face and he would have regretted his outburst had it been on any other topic. When it came to Enjolras, Grantaire never looked back.

"It isn't like that," Joly finally repeated, moving his hands down. There were no tears but the look on his face indicated that Joly had gone past them into a deeper sorrow.

"Then explain it to me." His rage gradually subsiding, Grantaire stood a good distance from Joly, hoping that if he had woken up the others with his shouting that they'd have the sense to stay in their rooms.

"I can't see him like that. I can't. It's a reminder." Joly's breathing hitched a little. "I can stand there and stare at dying patients in my clinics, knowing that I didn't help put them there. I can fix them. I can handle anything medical, but I can't help Enjolras, and I know I'd only make things worse."

It was a short speech. An explanation that didn't go into depth, but Grantaire didn't need him to.

He understood.

It was difficult for him after finding out what Enjolras had been through. Even more difficult to think that his idol had potentially burnt out, wouldn't be there to soar for him, wouldn't raise his voice in triumph, wouldn't speak of the future. And Enjolras had spoken very little, confirming a few of Grantaire's misgivings. But from what he saw of Enjolras gave him hope.

In the beginning, he hadn't any hope at all. He believed in Enjolras, but after hearing about the aftermath of the wretched series of events, he had argued with himself, held conversations and debates with himself, had neglected to check in on Enjolras because of his fears and doubts. He had only managed to conquer them when he figured out that if Enjolras was well and truly broken, he may as well just end his own world and follow him into oblivion. Only his would have been more permanent.

The fact that Enjolras was not a walking zombie not only made Grantaire's belief in Enjolras grow, but also made Grantaire furious with himself for even thinking that Enjolras had been broken.

So how could he fault Joly for not being able to witness the same? Joly didn't need Enjolras the same way that Grantaire did, so he had no true reason to see for himself that Enjolras wasn't entirely shattered.

All the same, Joly was a friend, and to see a friend pull away from such a traumatic event made Grantaire a little sick inside. "You should still talk to him. Write to him if you can't manage to see him face to face, but he needs to know that you're there for him." Anger now gone, an explanation given, Grantaire's voice had returned to normal and he turned toward the door. "But if you let this go on and choose not to be a part of his life or his recovery, then I can't see you as being his friend. Staying away may be easier for you, but this isn't about you. It's not about me. It's about him, and you're causing him pain. I forgive you on that because you're my friend and I understand what you're going through all too well. But because you haven't sunk into despair yet, you can still remain afloat. You have others to hold you up. He has us, and there's a gap where you ought to be. It's noticeable, Joly. And it's deplorable."

With that, Grantaire took himself out of the apartment, not wanting to remain there any longer. Enjolras needed him and he understood his priorities. What happened to Enjolras was heartbreaking, but it was only through his absence from Enjolras that Grantaire learned that he couldn't live without the man. A new goal had been formed in his life because of this.

He could only hope that Joly would one day have some sort of epiphany that would allow him the same hope.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Bossuet**

The conversation that followed Grantaire's departure was painful. Lesgles respectfully requested that Musichetta stay within her room just for a time while he talked to Joly. What she had been told about the goings-on the night of the barricade had been minimal. All she knew was that one of their own had been brutally hurt and Joly didn't care to speak of it.

Bossuet knew he didn't contribute well enough since he had been putting off on saying anything to Joly. Their conversations tended to drift to what was taking place in the present. It was unfair, Bossuet knew, to Enjolras and to the others, but it was also unfair to Joly and himself. When one of them suffered, the others gathered around and supported that one. They held themselves up, because if they didn't, how could they say they'd help hold up the rest of humanity?

They dealt in tragedy every day. They saw the suffering in the street. They understood everything well enough to know that it couldn't go on. Joly was more susceptible to the sight than most, and in order to properly function, he had to sever just a small part of himself to grant the best of treatment.

Bossuet could never forget the time that Joly had to officially diagnose someone with an STD. He had stuttered through it, hemmed and hawed, and made flippant gestures, trying to choreograph a strange interpretive dance of the clap. He ended up looking like a dancing crab and had left Courfeyrac thoroughly confused. Since then, Joly had gotten better, aided in many ways by Combeferre who told him straight out that his empathy had to take a backseat so he could form logical conclusions.

That wasn't to say that doctors were incapable of sympathy. If they were, they wouldn't have become doctors. Well, not good doctors anyway, and Bossuet knew that Joly was one of the best.

But this hit close to home. This left an impact that went beyond any physical ailments. Broken legs, Joly could treat. Sore throat, Joly could help. Even the marks upon Enjolras' chest, Joly could handle. But it was the emotional scarring that Joly couldn't seem to get near, and as a doctor, that had to be jarring. Even more so when Joly knew he was rendered useless to a friend. Bossuet understood this, but he also knew that it was time to get over the emotional hang-ups, both for the sake of Joly and his friends.

He exited his room silently and turned weary eyes on his friend.

Joly remained sitting upon the couch, his head in his hands. Despite his tendency to be overly dramatic concerning his ailments, Joly was still very much genuine when he was upset. Bossuet had rarely seen him like this before. When they had lost Bahorel, Joly had taken it badly. He had been primarily responsible for treating the injured, and Bahorel had passed on long before Joly could get to his body, and by that point they had worse things to witness.

Another failure as Bossuet realized during Bahorel's funeral.

Bossuet rested a hand on Joly's shoulder as he sat down next to him. "You know it needed to be said," he started. "But it was cruel, I guess. If you want, I can go find him and punch him for you." He was half-jesting and he knew Joly would know that.

Joly didn't stir, didn't even smile, so Bossuet felt he should try another approach. "I think he said what he did because you're important. Far more important than me, anyway. You've got a much higher education, you're closer to Combeferre than I ever will be, and Combeferre is closer to him."

This was a small point of jealousy Bossuet held regarding Combeferre. It was to Combeferre that Joly went whenever a question came up about classes or knowledge or some degree of insight. Combeferre fulfilled a hole in Joly that Bossuet could not, while Joly fulfilled practically everything within Bossuet. Still, after so many years of being around one another, Bossuet had learned to let go of the jealousy.

Thus, he felt comfortable bringing it up to Joly now. "You've always fulfilled a role. You've been strong enough to handle being at the barricade, despite your illness. You stayed strong as you tended to those who fell. You are a remarkable individual, so it's no wonder they need you."

"I don't want to be needed," Joly said at last. He moved his hands away from his face, his eyes red-rimmed. "I don't want to be needed at all. I know what Grantaire said was true. I understand what he said. At the same time, I just can't bring myself to look at him!"

"At Grantaire?"

"At Enjolras!" The words came out a little louder than Joly intended. "I can't stand seeing him like that, so different than how he used to be! So empty, so bleak! I can't take the haunted look because it doesn't suit him! It shouldn't be on him at all! I hate seeing him like this!" Once the words were out, they kept coming, spilling forth like a geyser. Joly had kept things bottled up within him for far too long. "How am I supposed to act around him? Should I apologize? What good would that do? Should I tell him how well he looks? Because he doesn't look well at all! I told you before what he said to me! He came to me, he confided in me, and look at what I said to him! I did the equivalent of telling him to stop whining and get over it all! Why? Not for his sake, but my sake! I'm a terrible friend, I don't need to be told that to believe it! I know it myself. But I just can't bring myself to look at him when he's like that! It's more than just my inability to help him, it's simply a matter of him breaking!"

Bossuet cut in quietly. "He didn't break, Joly. He agreed to-"

"Yes, yes," Joly interrupted, "he agreed to Courfeyrac and you. To work with the two of you. He's going through the motions, Bossuet. That doesn't mean he feels anything. That doesn't mean he has much hope for the future. A puppet can go through the motions."

"And is that what he is to you now? A puppet?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. Can a puppet manipulate its own self? Pull its own strings?" Joly rubbed his nose in a fit of agitation. "He wears despair like a shroud. It's not him, Bossuet. It feels like our friend died that night and in his place is some foreign entity that lives in his body but hasn't one iota of his spirit."

They sat in silence for several minutes. Joly disliking himself immensely and Bossuet trying to figure out what to say.

"I think he's still the same," Bossuet finally said, breaking the ugly silence. "I think if his spirit was truly destroyed, Grantaire wouldn't have been so adamant about you coming out of your shell and seeing him. Your absence is paining him, and yes, to look at him might bring you agony as well, but I think that if the two of you saw one another, if you allowed yourself to take the first step and reach out to him, you would see what the others are seeing. Enjolras isn't broken. I don't think he can break, really. He looks like a china dish, pretty, delicate angles, and rather pale, but unless you use him for target practice and have very good aim, he's not going to shatter. And even if he does, there's no telling if he'll just pick up the pieces and glue himself back together."

"If he could do that, he wouldn't need me," Joly remarked.

"It's merely an analogy, and a poor one at best. The fact remains that he needs you. He needs us. He needs to know that he's still there, and I believe he's given out parts of himself to all of us over the years. He reached out to us, drew us all together, kept us as one group, and he did lead us to victory. It's a ghastly victory for him, but for us? We can walk out in the sun and know that we played a part in that revolution, that we brought about a Republic, something we can be proud of. Could we say the same if we had drifted off? If he didn't inspire us almost daily? He worked hard not just for the people, but for us. So maybe, right now, he needs those pieces of himself back. And it's quite selfish to deny him."

Joly's fingers toyed with a small thread on the couch, unraveling it bit by bit. "I don't feel anything of him within me."

"That's because you're not all there yourself. The Joly I know wouldn't leave a friend in such a bad situation. The Joly I know wouldn't turn his back on a suffering friend."

"Then I guess I'm just not the Joly you knew." The words came out harsh and Bossuet flinched.

"I hadn't meant to cause strife."

At the placating tone, Joly heaved a sigh. "No, no, I'm sorry. It's not you I'm angry with. It's not Enjolras, it's not Grantaire. It's myself and the situation. I fear I'll only make it worse if I try to make it better. I don't wish to flinch from him, but he…" At a loss for words, Joly just shrugged in defeat.

"I understand. I'm betting the rest of our friends understand too. I don't think anyone likes seeing him like this. But I do suggest that you get over this particular hang-up. Remember when Enjolras said that when we're fighting, we may well end up dead. And when that one recruit, ah, what was his name? I suppose it doesn't matter, but remember how pale he went? And how he said that perhaps there was another way around these matters? And when Courfeyrac jokingly told him to draw up his own petition and they'll all sign with the letter X? I'm drawing out the story, I know. The point of it is that the recruit said that he simply didn't want us all to end up dead. And Enjolras had to point out to him that this isn't about the individual wants or needs. It was about a group collective, and that the group encompassed the whole of France. Do you remember that?"

Joly nodded, his fingers still viciously yanking on the thread.

"Well, that's just the case, isn't it? For now, I mean. This isn't about you as an individual. This is about us as a group. And right now, it needs to be about the group's recovery. Not just Enjolras', but yours and mine and Grantaire's, and everyone else who has had to bear witness to that heinous act," Bossuet finished. He felt a little proud of himself for remembering such an important speech and being able to transpose it to the set of circumstances here.

Joly frowned. "And we are the group collective now?"

"We are. So if you're lacking, then the group is lacking. We all complete one another."

The string on the couch finally broke, snapping away into Joly's fingers. "So what do you think I should do?"

"Visit him. Talk to him. I'll be there with you as well if you want me to be. I'll even hold your hand."

Joly sent Bossuet a sharp look but Bossuet looked utterly genuine. "And if he rejects me?"

"Have you ever known Enjolras to reject anyone?"

This was true, but Joly was still certain that Enjolras was simply not himself. So his actions would be unpredictable at best. Completely uncharacteristic at worst. Still, for Bossuet's sake, he agreed.

—-

Enjolras had managed to sleep through the rest of the night. Grantaire spent his time outside of his friend's bedroom, restlessly pacing the small expanse of the living room and going over what he had said to Joly.

Had he been too harsh? Perhaps he let his anger overpower his sympathy. True, where Enjolras was concerned, Grantaire tended to lash out in an emotional overkill, whether it was waxing poetic on the man, relentlessly championing him if not the cause, or stuck in an endless loop of uncertainty or depression when he thought Enjolras despised him. There was never a calm middle ground when it came to Enjolras, and Grantaire was steadily realizing this fact.

Now that you've recognized the problem, you should be able to find a solution, said his oft-ignored conscience, which sounded a good deal like Enjolras. This didn't help matters.

Joly was a friend. Was still a friend with a little bit of luck. Surely Joly knew that when it concerned Enjolras, Grantaire tended to be rather bombastic in his declarations. So Joly would forgive him.

Right?

Not that Grantaire was entirely certain he regretted his words. In fact, he didn't regret them at all. Perhaps his tone, certainly, but not the words. The words needed to be said, and Joly's actions were just ungrounded. It hadn't been Enjolras' fault that he'd been tortured and nearly broken. So why should Joly act as though Enjolras was the perpetrator of his own misfortune.

He was getting angry again, and the rising sun held no answers for him. In fact, all it did was emphasize how tired he felt. All the same, he ordered breakfast for both himself and Enjolras from the landlady and tried to make himself feel better by bringing the meal right to Enjolras' bed.

Enjolras also held no answers for him. Primarily because Grantaire didn't ask him any questions. As far as Enjolras knew, Grantaire had just gone to Combeferre's. Grantaire wanted to tell him the truth as it felt like a hidden truth was the same as a lie. It wouldn't be long until Combeferre arrived anyway, and how would Enjolras take it when Combeferre was asked about the night before only to express ignorance?

Probably not well.

All the same, Grantaire didn't want to burden Enjolras with anything more.

"Talk to me."

Grantaire turned wide eyes at the blond. Enjolras was sitting up in bed, watching him. He had eaten a few bites of the breakfast, but Grantaire doubted Enjolras could even tell him what was on the plate. "It's not much of anything," he said, feeling even more guilty.

"Try me anyway. You look lost."

Not for the first time did Grantaire think that Enjolras tried to focus so hard on other people so as to ignore the malingering darkness that so threatened despair within himself. In light of that thought, Grantaire made his decision. "I didn't go to Combeferre's last night."

A pause. Enjolras waited patiently for Grantaire to continue.

"I went to Joly's."

There was a slight clatter as Enjolras slowly put his fork down, his gaze turning downcast. All at once, Grantaire knew he had made a mistake. "Why?" Enjolras asked, his tone nonjudgmental.

"I was curious about his continued absence." Not having anywhere else to go, Grantaire pressed on, wishing to either embrace Enjolras or leave the room. To sit so close to the man's bed and confess to him everything made him feel as though he were sinking in quicksand. He hoped this wouldn't cost him the friendship he was still building with Enjolras. "He gave me the medicine to help you sleep and told me to give you my regards. I lost it just a little with him. I'm sorry, but no. No, I'm not sorry."

Grantaire abruptly shifted in his chair. "I'm not sorry at all," he repeated. "I'm glad I said what I did. It was for your sake that I said them, and I-"

He stopped when Enjolras slid a hand over his eyes, his thumb brushing against his golden hair.

Grantaire's heart sank. Enjolras' shoulders weren't shaking but the fear of his friend in tears gave him a chilled feeling that seemed to stem in his soul. "Enjolras?" He asked, tentatively.

"He stays away because he can't handle this, Grantaire," Enjolras said, and Grantaire was relieved that Enjolras' voice didn't shake. "I don't blame him. I don't mind his reaction."

"You mind it," Grantaire said, taking a chance. "You just won't admit that to yourself." But he liked that about Enjolras. That strange sort of innocence, that honest belief in other people, the willingness to gloss over a fault because it could be justified or understandable, even if it was a slight against himself. Grantaire exploited that part of Enjolras regularly. So who was he to hold it against him now?

But he felt genuine remorse for every time he had disappointed Enjolras. And this had nothing to do with the revolution and everything to do with something far more personal. "You may not hold yourself up as being higher than the revolution or the Republic," Grantaire continued, "but I do. I hold you higher than any of those things. To me, you're real. Yes, we're living in a Republic now, and yes, we had our revolution. But you're far more valuable to me. And now that the fighting is over and done, I remember your second step. The first step is the revolution, right? And the second is to bring in the ideal. Well, we can't make an ideal if people aren't standing up for one another. So this is me. Standing up for you."

Enjolras didn't move for awhile and Grantaire forgot how to breathe.

"How is it that you can remember all that I've said and never believe a word of it?" Enjolras asked as he slowly moved his hand away from his eyes.

"I believe in you. So I listen to you. That's a good basis," Grantaire responded, trying to induce some flippancy into the conversation. He hated having to be this serious when he was feeling so on-edge.

Enjolras shifted a bit, his gaze moving from the food to the wall to the bed, and it occurred to Grantaire that he might be nervous as well. He hazarded a guess to the cause. "Joly didn't say much of anything, but I suspect I left him thinking just a bit more about his actions."

"Still…"

"Don't tell me that I should have stayed silent."

So Enjolras didn't and Grantaire was grateful.

The rest of the morning passed by easily enough. Enjolras didn't require Grantaire's help in dressing and Grantaire knew better than to offer any such services. Knowing his luck, he would have done more damage than good. Right before Grantaire was about to leave to attend to his job, there was a knock on the door.

Enjolras reached it first with Grantaire hanging back a few feet just in case it was a threat. Living in a Republic hardly meant there weren't any hazards left facing them.

A sheepish Joly looked back up at Enjolras, and behind him stood Bossuet who looked far more pleased with himself than the situation probably warranted.

Enjolras, for his part, stayed silent, neither inviting them in nor rejecting them. He merely waited for Joly to make the first move. Grantaire couldn't help but feel a little proud.

Joly looked down, but when Bossuet nudged him, he brought his head back up sharply. The action was quick but his eyes looked tired, as though he was on the verge of tears again. "I'm sorry. For the ideal. I'd like to-" he stumbled a little, his hands toying with themselves in front of him as he swallowed the urge to rub his nose. "I'd like to try and give some of it back to you."

Enjolras smiled and it was sad and luminous at the same time. "Come in then."

Both Joly and Bossuet entered, and while very little had been properly worked out in those few sentences that passed, Grantaire felt more comfortable leaving Enjolras than he had before.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Bahorel**

The date of the bar exam was circled in red on the calendar. Enjolras felt nothing when he looked upon it. The question of passing wasn't on his mind. He knew what would be expected of him. He knew the questions. He knew the answers. Memorizing and being able to utilize the new laws came simple to him, and that was all they were looking for, the practical understanding and adherence to the justice system.

Everyone had their role to play.

While he felt a vague lightness at the idea of setting up a firm with Courfeyrac and Bossuet, genuine enjoyment came to him with great difficulty. He was steadily becoming a more functioning human being. He could leave the apartment outside of classes, pick up food for himself or for Grantaire and Combeferre should either stay over. He could manage his own finances. he could handle homework. He could debate well enough again with Combeferre over a myriad of subjects.

His mind was not the problem.

Nor was his body. The bandages had since been taken off, and Combeferre said that the air would help the residual scars heal. Enjolras didn't have to ask him any questions concerning the scars. Combeferre merely picked up on the words that were left unspoken.

"Over time, they will fade. After several years, they'll become more white than red. You may always have them, but they'll change in color." His tone carried an apology along with it. Enjolras accepted both with a nod. This was hardly Combeferre's fault.

The word still stared back at him in the mirror, was still run over with his fingers when he bathed, and with a morbid curiosity, traced the lines that flawed his skin. The black and purple bruising had long since faded, and even the burns were starting to heal over.

No, his body wasn't the problem.

The fleeting happiness he received whenever one of his friends came to visit was more than fleeting. It was almost nonexistent, and Enjolras felt as though he was playing a role as well. This sat poorly with him, as he'd always prided himself on being a genuine individual. He didn't care to deceive, to wear a mask, most especially around his friends. But he felt as though he was doing them a continual disservice whenever they came to call. It was clear that when he was too quiet, they would exchange looks, wondering if they pressed down upon a nerve.

Enjolras, not wishing to offend and far too empathic regarding his friends' sensibilities, pushed himself more to make amends.

It was a vicious circle as he only felt worse the more he thought he was deceiving them. It also exhausted him far more than any pain ever had.

At the same time, his sadness for his friends' well-being and desire to make things better for them were the only true feelings he thought he had left to him. Everything else was becoming an act, and he wasn't sure if he was sinking into apathy or just a cold numbness.

Shock, Combeferre had once suggested to him in relation to an injury another of their friends had suffered. When the body couldn't take anymore and switched itself off to protect itself. Only it wasn't a protection, but a sign of worsening symptoms. Enjolras wasn't sure if that applied here.

All he was sure about was that it was damnably hard to feel much of anything that was positive, even though he knew logically he had something to look forward to. The days started feeling longer, classes started becoming more tedious, and while he could leave the apartment without fear of reprisal or the looks people gave him, he often did not care to do so.

Grantaire had been studying this lethargic turn of events and, not knowing what else to do, suggested Enjolras go with him to Bahorel's grave.

There was something frightening in a bird that could fly, that could walk, that could eat, but could not sing. Grantaire wasn't sure where things went wrong, or if things had always been wrong since the events of that night. Nothing he said could rouse Enjolras from this state of quiet.

This did not surprise Grantaire. He always knew he wouldn't be enough for Enjolras and he was grateful that Enjolras had allowed him so much into his life thus far. But what drove him to near-despair was that nothing Combeferre said to Enjolras was able to pull the man out of this current rut. Combeferre, who knew everything about everything, was at a loss, and this shook Grantaire up far more than he thought possible. It also drove home to him just how much he and Enjolras were relying on him.

Enjolras did not seek outside interference regarding his emotions, or lack thereof. He wouldn't know how to phrase it and he didn't care to push more of himself onto anyone else.

Even the nightmares held no fear for him, nor sadness, nor much of anything, really. He still woke from them, but he went to sleep almost just as quickly afterwards. So when Grantaire approached him, holding another purple potted flower in his hands, he agreed to the outing, expecting nothing to come from it but hoping to be able to pull himself out of his rather darkened hole.

Answers weren't printed on the skies above. They remained a clear blue, pleasant for the changing of the seasons.

Grantaire filled in the silence with his usual speeches on nothing and didn't think Enjolras was really paying attention to him until they reached the cemetery.

"So the purple flower is just one big joke?"

Grantaire blinked and looked at his companion in confusion. "I didn't think you were listening."

Enjolras took no offense. "I always am. It just filters through a bit more slowly or quickly depending on the conversation."

"Oh…" There didn't seem to be much to say about that, but that was yet another illusion of Enjolras cracked open in Grantaire's mind. He had himself a running tally so far of oddities he tended to attribute to Enjolras, and it was only recently that he had begun to see how much he had assumed and how the reality was sometimes a bit stranger than the fiction he dreamt.

For instance, Enjolras did not often glare at things. Or anyone. Granted, this was a bit of an unfairness since his friend was having difficulties with emotions, but still. What could annoy him, what would annoy anyone, often breezed right by the man. Enjolras had a peculiar defense for absurdity.

He allowed for it to happen. And treated it as normal. What Grantaire thought would bother him, such as when Bossuet came over and offered to help clean the place resulting in a wastebasket being set on fire while Joly tossed water on it, didn't rattle Enjolras whatsoever. He just looked at the mess of slop on the floor and requested that the window be opened a bit further to properly air out the apartment from the smoke and the fumes of plastic wreckage.

Bossuet had done him one better and tossed the entire mess out the window, nearly taking himself along with it. Joly had managed to grab him in time and nearly lost himself as well. Enjolras and Grantaire had to pull them both back into the apartment while the neighbor downstairs yelled bloody murder at them due to the flailing Bossuet terrifying her guests.

Enjolras took it all in stride and thanked them sincerely for their help. He hadn't cracked a smile throughout, but Grantaire suspected he would have if he was thinking properly.

Back to the present, Grantaire shook his head to clear his thoughts. "A joke, yes. I mean, I know Jehan delivered flowers every Wednesday. Saturday is normally my day to see his grave, and I'm proud to say I hadn't missed it. Due to the two of us being more than a little obnoxious and with him committing random acts of vandalism, we figured that out of all of the group, one of us would be the first to go. Of course, he always gave himself the warrior's death. Said he would die on a sword or something. Live by the sword, die by the sword. That's what he used to say. It makes for a great quote. Just as you'll probably meet your end in some far-off revolution, Courfeyrac will probably go by an over-intensive orgasm at the ripe old age of a hundred and thirty, and Combeferre may one day be crushed beneath a pile of books. And I? Well, I thought I'd end up dying of drink. One day, the green fairy would claim me for her own, but not any more. I haven't given it all up, but I've moderated. You've said before how proud you are of me, but Bahorel? He barely knew moderation when it came to his anger. He was a fierce proud beast. So we spoke of morbid things because I didn't care about his republican views and he didn't care to hear me wax poetic on absinthe. Ah, am I speaking too much?"

It was Enjolras' turn to shake his head, and they settled themselves beside Bahorel's grave. While Grantaire spoke, he set to unearthing the dying purple flower and replacing it with the new one.

"We spoke of our funerals, and he told me that should he die before me, he would want something simple. A funeral with the newer version of Ca Ira playing in the background. Or sung by a group of working men who could growl out the more profane verses. 'What?' I asked of him, 'No flowers? Jehan would be most distressed!' And he laughed at me and said, 'no flowers.' 'Not even if they remind us of your grotesque smile?' I asked of him. And here he actually thought about it and said, 'If you wish to get me a flower, you can get me a flower. Have it be the color of death. Nothing romantic.' So Jehan will bring the romance and I'll bring the death."

Grantaire finished his handiwork and sat back, unwilling to leave since Enjolras didn't seem inclined to go.

"Why death?" Enjolras asked.

"Because it was a color that would match what he'd grant to his enemies. It was a pain having to locate purple flowers. I ended up missing a week, but now that I know where to find them, I make it a point to deliver them right to him. It wasn't a true promise, but since I can't bring him back, it's all I can do."

Enjolras nodded, his gaze drifting to the monument. "You and he were close."

"Like brothers!"

Enjolras could understand that. He and Combeferre shared a similar bond. "Do you think he would forgive me?"

Grantaire was at a loss on what to say to that. He had the feeling that something very profound was going on right now, which made him feel awkward and stupid. A wrong answer could send Enjolras spiraling downwards even faster, but he wasn't sure of the right words. So he fumbled a bit with his fingers as he tried to stall for time. "Forgiveness for what?" He finally asked, quietly and gently just in case that was the wrong question entirely.

Enjolras didn't pull away, either physically or verbally. "For my betrayal that night."

Back with the betrayal and Grantaire pushed down the feeling of anger that threatened to arise. It was not rage against Enjolras that always came up. In his eyes, Enjolras could still do very little wrong. But with the eradication of the anger came the startling clarity that he held far more than an opinion in his hands. Enjolras was asking him about Bahorel because Enjolras could not trust himself to figure out that answer. Grantaire was closer to Bahorel, thus he could attempt to appease Enjolras even just a little.

The only problem was that it had to be genuine. Enjolras was trusting Grantaire, and the enormity of that hit Grantaire like an anvil. Rather than immediately give Enjolras an answer, he chose to think about the question, giving as much weight as was deserved. It must have been difficult for Enjolras to ask him, and Grantaire was glad that Enjolras hadn't just assumed full blame upon himself.

"I think he would," Grantaire finally said, his voice a bit reverent. He turned away from Enjolras to look at the monument. "Bahorel was a good man who knew how to fight, but he also saw potential in people. He was a lot like you. Sometimes I'd listen to his republican rhetoric. He spoke about other groups, how they amassed, if they were organized, what they were doing, if they even had a publisher. Our group, he said to me, was one of the more organized ones. While it was smaller than the others, each member of the group carried their own weight and then some. Forever active, he knew that it was just a matter of time before we were tearing up paving stones. He trusted us, and he said that he'd rather die with us than in a brawl with some brainless ultra. So there you know that you have merit, you and the others. But on the matter of forgiveness, Bahorel was fair. Granted, many people who were weaker than him often felt his wrath, but only because they attacked first. But he was never truly excessive. He always knew when to pull back his strength and his temper. Granted, normally that was when someone was already lying flat but…"

Grantaire trailed off as he tried to organize his thoughts. It was one thing to get everything clear within his head. It was another altogether to weave the thoughts into words that would be adequate enough. He felt as though he were on a timer here and one wrong sentence could potentially destroy Enjolras, or at least wreak havoc on his already precarious emotional state.

Enjolras, for his part, was watching Grantaire intently. "Do you think he'd blame me at all?" He asked, trying to prod out some more answers from him.

"Yes," Grantaire said automatically, and then his eyes widened as he realized what he had just said.

Enjolras didn't look destroyed. Far from it. He nodded in acceptance of this simple fact and simpler word. "It is understandable. I allowed myself to be captured."

Grantaire yearned to argue with him. He didn't think that was true at all, but his answer wasn't what Enjolras wanted to hear, and he knew Bahorel better than that.

They both knew Bahorel rather well, it seemed.

And yet, Enjolras seemed at peace with this. "He was uncompromising in such matters. Death, but no dishonor."

Grantaire swallowed hard. "That was him. That was always him. But he wouldn't blame you for their actions."

Enjolras took in a breath, as though he was about to argue, but then he released it and said nothing. Grantaire took the silence as his assent. A weight did seem to lift off Enjolras' shoulders. A fact that he made quite clear when he said, "He wouldn't like seeing me as I am now."

"No, he likely wouldn't. He'd wonder why you aren't shooting guns off in the street when the anniversary of our freedom came around. No matter for it, though. You'll just need to fire off two guns come next month," Grantaire replied, falling into an easier frame of mind. A great burden had been released from him as well, and he had never felt so free or so happy. Yet he couldn't properly explain just why his mood suddenly elevated.

"Living for us both then," Enjolras muttered, as he took in the words with his customary seriousness. He etched a pattern into the dirt, one that Grantaire didn't recognize. They stayed like that for a few more minutes before Enjolras finally lifted up his head, his eyes a little more clear. "Tell me more about you and Bahorel."

It wasn't the sort of thing Grantaire expected to hear, but he didn't mind. He offered Enjolras an easy smile. "What would you like to hear?"

"About the ring. About your first meeting. Anything and everything."

Grantaire did not know the purpose behind this. He didn't know Enjolras' motivations, and he thought that even if he did know of them, they would still be a little confusing to him. All the same, he wasn't about to deny Enjolras anything, and so he talked.

He talked about the first time he met Bahorel, the first few drinks they had together, the times he had to lug Bahorel home after a few too many. When he introduced Bahorel to the underground fighting games, when they trampled their competition, and how some thugs tried to call them out afterwards only to be given similar treatment, but this time without the aid of a referee. Grantaire spoke of shared prison cells, of mistresses, of Bahorel's odd quotes and phrases. He spoke of friendship and trust and how they both regarded their failed classes. Bahorel would never be a lawyer and Grantaire would never be a true artist, and yet, they reveled in their failures, drank to embittered professors, and rejoiced in life.

While it would be a bit too sentimental for Enjolras to think that Bahorel's spirit sat with them to listen to tales of the past, he still felt Bahorel far more acutely now than he had in a long time. The memory of his friend had faltered a bit along with the rest of his emotions.

But here and now, it stung against his heart, this feeling of loss, and yet, with Grantaire continuing his tales of misdeeds and adventures, he couldn't help but feel uplifted by it at the same time.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Grantaire**

The visit to Bahorel's grave did a little in raising Enjolras' spirits. There were fewer things in the world that made him feel more enjoyment than his friends. While the revolution and the Republic were everything to him, the fact remained that without his friends a new day would never arrive. Even if it had, he wouldn't have wanted to greet that new day alone.

Aside from Grantaire's company, Joly and Bossuet continued to make frequent stops to his place. Joly, no longer feeling so awkward, took the time to explain not only about any outbreaks that came about, but how many innovations they could employ from foreign nations.

"It wouldn't be hard to adopt practices and treatments from, say, England or even Germany. There's just so much to take in right now that everything feels so overwhelming!" Joly said to him, and despite his words, he said it with a grin. Speaking to Enjolras about improvements felt more commonplace to him, as though Enjolras was personally responsible for creating more of a pathway between the worlds.

"You'll get through it. Modern medicine ought to evolve alongside the human race," Enjolras reassured him, knowing that Joly needed no such reassurances. "So long as your Bossuet can keep up with you."

Bossuet tended to hold conversations with Grantaire while Joly and Enjolras spoke. He looked over at them at the sound of his name. "I have my own means of keeping up with him. I've been studying medicine and law and how one applies to the other. I think once we get started on our firm, I would be able to take on any cases of malpractice. It will be my roost."

The mention of the firm made Enjolras smile outwardly. Inwardly, he felt less than certain. It wasn't a matter of his abilities, as he was confident in himself and in the justice system. The niggling thoughts he had, he could not put to words. He didn't understand them, and this inability to comprehend a part of himself made him feel as though he had less control.

Grantaire noticed the stillness, but he didn't voice anything until after their company left. "You haven't been sleeping well," he started.

"You sound like Combeferre."

Combeferre had been thrilled to see Joly and Bossuet at Enjolras' apartment the most recent time he came over. Joly talked to him throughout the entire time he was there, asking for his opinions on this and that, disregarding the fact that he had likely surpassed Combeferre's knowledge in medicine. Still, old habits died hard, and Combeferre was always eager to take in more knowledge even if he would probably never be applying it.

"He complains about the quantity. I'm more about the quality," Grantaire reasoned. He knew Enjolras had been speaking to Combeferre about how he felt, but the conversations were always cut short now due to the company. Neither Joly nor Bossuet meant to intrude, and truly Enjolras was glad for them being there. It did have the unfortunate repercussion of Enjolras not getting all the answers he needed, and yet, perhaps Combeferre didn't have all the answers to give.

What do you say to someone who when asked how they feel only responds with, "Gutted"?

"The quality will work itself out in time," Enjolras replied, feeling dismissive of the question.

""Maybe," Grantaire conceded as he watched his friend. "Or maybe it will worsen. You've never been through this before. Sometimes I think you're just as blind as I am. Ah! I know what will help!"

When Grantaire was young, his mother would sometimes read him stories to lull him to sleep. Those were the few moments that he could remember about her and looked back with a soft fondness that he never held for anyone else in his family. He didn't think Enjolras would see him as he had seen his mother, but he was hardly going for a sentimental attachment here. Enjolras needed to sleep, so Grantaire set to reading to him from the books he knew would bore Enjolras to tears.

"The charcoal design ought to be just so, held loosely between the fingers as it's pushed in a downward angle. The hand mustn't shake or pause in its trek…"

Enjolras, at first, disavowed such a practice. "I hardly need to be read to, Grantaire. I'm not a child."

Only after he had passed out after the third page did he later see the merit. "Art is tedious," he said.

Grantaire smirked. "It could be. But even you will find a usefulness within it."

Enjolras kept this in mind, and while the teaching of art was wasted upon him, he did find enjoyment in other mediums of said form of expression. Grantaire walked in on him at one point and almost laughed at the sight. Grantaire's sketchbooks were scattered around Enjolras, art books opened to display their pictures, and Enjolras himself, looking up almost nervously at Grantaire like a child who had been caught masturbating. The guilty look soon turned to a scowl when Grantaire began snickering.

"I'm sorry," Enjolras began, but Grantaire stopped him.

"No, no need to apologize! I didn't think that I would find you here, looking at all of this." He knelt down beside Enjolras. "Does it interest you? Did you find anything that captured your attention?"

Being so close to Enjolras was still making his heart hammer in his chest. Grantaire had long since learned to push down such feelings in order to care for his friend and reach out to him. He needed everything to be genuine, certainly, but at the same time, he did not dare to overwhelm Enjolras with his affections. He knew they wouldn't be returned not because Enjolras may not have felt the same for him, but because the recovery was still firmly set in Enjolras' mind. To push his love onto Enjolras may trigger a memory, and Grantaire would rather rip out his own heart than risk sending Enjolras down a darker spiral of shame and embarrassment. He could handle the burden of his own feelings as he always did. He wasn't the one who needed the support.

But looking at Enjolras like this, when he appeared to be almost lost amidst the scattered papers and sketches, made Grantaire want nothing more than to hold him. He was not Courfeyrac, however, and his touch wouldn't be considered the same to Enjolras as Courfeyrac's.

"I don't know. I suppose I'm looking for answers, and I stumbled across one earlier, and yet it was fleeting and vanished as I scoured the pages here. I didn't mean to make a mess. It looks as though I was in a rush and perhaps I was, chasing after the ghost of an idea." Enjolras' tone was subdued but there was a hint of need weaving within it.

Grantaire couldn't fully understand it, but he felt a glimmer of hope that it was to his sketches Enjolras went as he searched for an answer. "When I said that even you might find a usefulness in art, I only meant it on a metaphorical scale."

"You speak in metaphors, Grantaire. So do I. Or I used to. I once told Joly that I couldn't see it anymore, the ideal world. And it wasn't because the ideal was upon us now. It isn't. Close, but not quite there. And yet, I find myself stagnated not in body or mind, but in spirit, and it bothers me immensely. I see glimpses every now and again, fleeting sights like this idea. I see who I used to be, and I want it back. Yet the harder I chase after it, the faster it flees from me. Which is absurd. Why would I run from myself?"

"It's not absurd," though Grantaire wanted to be silent to let the words sink into his mind. Enjolras was opening up more and more to him, looking for answers perhaps, or he just desired a sounding board. Grantaire knew that speaking out on such matters would be helpful, but at the same time, he yearned to give Enjolras all the information he needed.

Was the problem his ignorance? Or were there truly no right answers to be found? He was starting to suspect the latter. "I think it's impossible to go back to before. Remember Joly's problem? He wanted to return to normal, but there is no normal. Even how things used to be within us is gone. A new Republic, a new environment, a new Paris. It's strange for all of us to be so uprooted, which is why I think we're trying so hard to stay together. But you have it worst of us all."

Enjolras raised his gaze to Grantaire. "I can handle the worst of it, Grantaire. I know myself well enough for that. But what galls me is that I don't have the same sort of control I used to over myself. I shouldn't be feeling this way. The others-"

"To hell with the others! How you should be feeling is no one's business but your own. There's no right or wrong way to go about this. We all do what we can, and you? You're the strongest one of us. You will come through this at your own pace!" The words were meant to inspire, but Grantaire wasn't much good at giving speeches.

Enjolras' gaze fell. "My own pace is not truly my own."

It was a simple statement, yet it conveyed so much. Enjolras was disappointed in his own recovery, and yet he could do nothing to fix it. He didn't even know what was holding him back, or if it was connected to himself, a measure of the environment, or something entirely foreign. He had vague concepts but he was missing pieces of the puzzle. Worse still, he knew that he was clueless, which left him grasping at straws and turning to things he would normally consider unorthodox.

Such as Grantaire's art.

"Does this give you comfort?" Grantaire asked. He moved over his sketchpad in front of Enjolras.

"I don't know." Stating ignorance wasn't something Enjolras particularly enjoyed. Especially if it was for such a small question. "Sometimes I feel as though I don't know myself at all anymore."

"I know you," Grantaire replied, his hand slowly reaching up to brush a few fingers against Enjolras' cheek. To his relief, Enjolras didn't flinch. "I know who you used to be, and I think I know who you are now, but I don't think you can use me for confirmation. Still, it's a journey we can make together. Not just you and me, that is, but all of them. There's no shame in building yourself back up, and if you can't make strange metaphorical speeches anymore, that's all right. Welcome to the Republic! You're in a safe place now!"

Enjolras scoffed but the corner of his mouth lifted a little.

Still, he scoured Grantaire's art books for the next two days before the idea struck him once again.

"You draw," he said as soon as Grantaire entered his apartment.

Getting more used to Enjolras' somewhat random statements whenever Grantaire saw him, the man just nodded. Occasionally, it felt as though Enjolras was holding conversations without him. He hoped he was witty.

"I meant for your profession."

"Glad you noticed. A profession I just came back from. I should start telling you about my clients. A lot of them are dockworkers who come back from the seas and wanting sketchings on them as they saw on the natives in other lands. They say that it's great for getting women."

Enjolras made a face. "These," he said, hoisting up a few pages of Grantaire's art. "You draw these."

Figuring that this was going to be a strange conversation indeed, Grantaire went over to Enjolras' side and sat down near him. He gently took the pages from his friend and looked over them. "Yes, I do. Though not many request them due to their size and the fact that very few know what they are."

Grantaire, having found his first love in Greek mythology, had an exceptional fondness for their art. He drew the mythical and fantastic, with hydras and griffins coming alive within bold strokes and majestic colors that complemented the beasts. Grantaire gave them a respect not often seen in terms of context nowadays and spent a good deal of time detailing the scales or the fur or the various animal heads upon each beast.

He knew Enjolras held a particular fondness for such things and spoke of them in complex terms, bringing them to light in this day and age, assigning them new roles. Each a one to be conquered or tamed.

Enjolras felt almost giddy for the first time in years. "Will you-" he paused, the words against his tongue, but he had to reign in his emotions.

Grantaire didn't want him to give him a chance. "Speak," he urged. He did not recognize this new symptom, but from Enjolras' expression, it was clear that this could be another large chunk of the puzzle that was Enjolras. Another sign that Enjolras was still making the tremendous effort of picking up the pieces of himself and meshing them together. He was too careful to force such pieces into place, which meant a slower recovery but a far more thorough one. So it was exciting to Grantaire in a way to be a part of this process.

"Will you draw them?" Enjolras finally asked. "On me?"

For the first time, Grantaire felt as though he could finally follow Enjolras' thought process. He didn't even have to ask him where Enjolras wanted them drawn. Nor could he refuse the man.

"If Combeferre says your skin can handle it, yes."

Combeferre had his doubts, but he inspected the needles Grantaire would be using and he made Grantaire swear to utilize several good numbing agents. The scars were already in place on Enjolras' chest and his skin had healed itself around them for the most part. He assured Combeferre and Grantaire that if the pain got too much for him, he would stop. Combeferre still continued to press until Enjolras gave him his word.

Grantaire prepared thoroughly for this project. It would take hours and he wouldn't be able to complete all of it in one go. Aside from bringing in his work tools to Enjolras' apartment, cleaning them off, and going over for what felt like the fiftieth time as to the designs Enjolras wanted, he made very certain to tell Enjolras exactly what he'd feel.

"This isn't going to be comfortable. In fact, this will probably hurt you more than others. And this part here will be on bone, so it will hurt more than doing it on pure muscle."

Despite all of this, Grantaire felt stupidly excited. Not only was he able to touch Enjolras more than usual, had a good reason to lay his hands upon the boy, but it was heart-lifting to see Enjolras just as excited if not more so. It was a thrill, yes, not genuine happiness, but it was a start and Grantaire was willing to take just about anything.

He started the project in the early morning hours, the bed prepared for Enjolras, towels laying beside him to catch the blood that spilled. The first few needles he knew would be some of the hardest as it showed Enjolras just how the pain would go, and yet his subject didn't flinch.

There was something cathartic going on within Enjolras' mind, something he didn't truly realize until that moment when Grantaire set to his task. The needles that pricked his skin, the ink that distorted the color, it all felt far less painful than what happened to him that night upon the barricades. The pain didn't remind him of the night in question, as he had feared it may. Quite the opposite, really, as the pain that came and went, quick as any prick upon the skin, had a relaxing effect on him. Perhaps it wasn't the pain in it of itself, he thought, but what the pain represented. Gradually, he was taking control perhaps not of his spirit, but of his body once more. It was his choice to design around the scars, to change the markings upon him, to settle himself into seeing his body as something more than just a scarred shell. It was a transformation, and each prick of the needle, while shallow, felt as though it was touching his soul. He couldn't explain the euphoria, even when Grantaire etched against bone. The pain reminding Enjolras that this was real, that he had chosen this latest transformation.

It was control of an altered state.

Several times Grantaire asked him how he felt. Each time he answered back, "Amazed." And Grantaire would smile, wipe away the blood, and would resume his work. The numbing agent kept away the bite of the needles, but not all of their pain. Enjolras made for an excellent subject, Grantaire decided. He had feared not having Enjolras within the typical chair he utilized, had hoped that Enjolras wouldn't move or shift positions throughout. He made it clear before that Enjolras needed to lay still, and yet he hadn't expected to be obeyed.

Enjolras displayed no signs of pain, which allowed Grantaire to work methodically at his task. He was gentler with Enjolras than he was with his other clients, warning him whenever he was going over bone, saying what he would be doing next.

The bandages were applied at the end of the session, and Grantaire warned him that the true designs wouldn't be able to be seen until after the blood clotted and was then washed away.

That wouldn't be until the next day, of course, but by that point, Grantaire was already working on the next patch of skin. Enjolras didn't so much care about how it all looked until the entire artwork was completed. His body seemed to work in correlation with his mind. The pain was nothing so his body treated it as nothing. It absorbed the ink Grantaire placed upon it. And it wasn't long until Grantaire found himself just as transfixed to the transformation as Enjolras.

He had never enjoyed his art before, having been told by his professors that he wouldn't amount to much of anything. He could not do landscapes. He did portraits and animals and beasts, but never scenery. He was never truly moved by such things, as the subjects within said sceneries held the most fascination for him. While he wasn't doing portraits upon Enjolras, he was doing an array of magical beasts, and he carved out each piece of skin, feeling as though he was Pygmalion, and yet he knew he was a flawed artist at best. His true work lay within Enjolras' mood and how Enjolras perceived himself when all was said and done. As for himself, he felt moved just being a part of such a change, and he had his first few moments when he realized that his art was not a colossal failure his professors made it out to be.

They had never painted on a man before. They merely told their students to etch out whatever model they were able to pay to stand up for a few hours. To Grantaire, that was not the essence of man. It was the inside of man that counted, and the outside so rarely matched up with the inside. So to him, he was not making Enjolras more beautiful, he was merely uplifting him.

He felt as though he was returning the many favors Enjolras had granted to him so many times previous.

And after each session, Enjolras would smile and tell him "Thank you" and those two words carried more sentiment than Grantaire thought he could handle. He had to leave quickly for his room afterwards at one point to weep, and he wasn't fully certain just why he was doing so or why such words touched him that deeply.

He felt elated because Enjolras was elated. He felt inspired because Enjolras was inspired. Yet while Enjolras' positive emotions resonated against him, pulling him up from his own quiet depression, he was learning not to sink whenever Enjolras sank. It was best that one of them stayed afloat to bring up the other. With this new revelation sinking into his soul, Grantaire felt more secure with his role in Enjolras' life than ever.

After the fourth day, the final etchings were in place, and Grantaire wrapped them carefully in gauze and bandages while applying lotion to the etchings he did previously before helping Enjolras with his shirt.

"You've probably lost more blood these past few days than ever." This had been something else Grantaire warned him about and had spent quite a few hours making sure liquids were stocked within the house. Keeping Enjolras fully hydrated was another reason why he had been able to continue the sessions one day after another. "I don't think any other client has sat with me for so long."

Enjolras didn't sit up immediately as he didn't want to risk the soreness just yet. He had since learned to give his blood a chance to clot before making any movements. "And have you treated your clients so well?"

"Admittedly not as much. But they come in, sometimes stinking of brandy, and I find myself tempted to give them a permanent marring of their stupidity."

"You can be so cruel." This was said with a smile which Grantaire returned all too willingly.

"Tomorrow, you'll be able to see it all."

The next day couldn't come quickly enough for either of them.

The reveal wasn't slow. Grantaire insisted on a quick bathing before Enjolras saw the new markings. For the first time since that painful night, Enjolras was looking forward to seeing his reflection.

This wasn't to say that there weren't some misgivings. There was a touch of fear that would ordinarily have been dismissed off-hand, waved away as ridiculous. He trusted Grantaire's art, having seen it for himself and knowing how hard Grantaire worked upon his body. But he was fearful that he had chosen wrong, had somehow marred himself up more than was necessary, had acted impulsively and perhaps the word carved on him would be seen in greater detail. Even if that was to be the case, would it be his own mind pushing forward the marks of his attack, or would it be the truth? He needed to trust in Grantaire's work and he needed to trust in himself. That was the only way around such a senseless fear.

He found himself staring in the mirror for so long that Grantaire, on the other side of the door, worried that something was wrong.

The word that had once been so prominent against his pale skin was gone. It was a part of the griffin's wings. It was a part of the fire breathed from the dragon. It was a part of the serpent's tail and body from the chimera.

Interlocking and winding down his torso, mythical creatures did not do battle with themselves, but came alive as creatures posing gravely and stoically, tamed in their own way but their natures coming alive in their scope. The colors were vibrant, the artwork sublime as they preened and roared and showed off their unique traits above the hydra whose heads curled around the other beasts, not trying to bite or maul, but popping in here and there as the hydra's large body rested against the plateau of Enjolras' abdomen. The burn marks were transformed into small volcanoes, bursting forth flame overhead to ignite and complete the fiery beasts, bringing them into the light, showing off their details in such a way that a mere portrait never could. It looked especially breathtaking each time Enjolras moved. The wings of the dragon almost seemed to flap when he set his shoulders back, and as he breathed, so did the feathers upon the griffin appear to move with an unseen wind.

Grantaire finally burst into the room and found Enjolras weeping openly in front of the mirror, but he was smiling so his heart was able to untwist itself.

Still, nothing prepared him for Enjolras turning to him and embracing him tightly, the towel still wrapped around his waist to preserve his modesty. Grantaire was thankful his own body didn't react to such a pressing treatment. It was enough for him to hold onto his friend, clinging back to him just as tightly.

And when Enjolras cried, so did he.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Feuilly**

"You're going to be very disappointed if I don't pass the bar," Bossuet said, though his tone indicated jest. Joly had been quizzing him thoroughly on every bit of law he could get his hands on, from the new laws to the old laws just in case the exam hadn't been updated yet.

"You'll pass. And if you don't, I'll take the months out of your first paycheck," Courfeyrac retorted. "Come now, gentlemen! Look upon her and know that you're gazing upon beauty incarnate!" He spread his arms wide, indicating the building in front of him. He narrowly avoided hitting a crewman in the face. "This is our future and Paris' future combined!"

What they were looking at was a building that managed to avoid destruction in the riots and barricades happening within the Latin Quarter of Paris. The building stood at a solid three stories. The first story was utilized for dentistry, but the next two stories, Courfeyrac had promised them, were meant for their new firm. The crewmen had been in and out all morning, setting down furnishings just the way Courfeyrac had designed. He had an eye not only for fashion on a person, but also for the interior of a building. Enjolras didn't much care what their firm looked like and Bossuet trusted Courfeyrac's judgment.

"Just so long as I can decorate my office how I like," Bossuet reminded him. Enjolras had agreed to the same terms. Courfeyrac was prepared to make that sacrifice.

"I figure a library upstairs along with Marius' office. He'll be something of a partner of our firm once he wins a few cases," Courfeyrac joked. "But on our main floor will be our offices. Do you want to go inside and take a look?"

Bossuet agreed, but Enjolras shook his head. "There's something I need to do while I'm here."

"If you must. But join us in another hour or so and I'll take you out to lunch," Courfeyrac said. "And you as well, Bossuet. Don't give me that look."

Enjolras left his two friends in front of their new firm. The scenery and look of the place didn't thrill him as it did the other two. What he so enjoyed was the symbolism of the set-up. Courfeyrac hadn't been lying when he spoke of the future. Enjolras fully intended to establish himself several kinds of reputations. Not the least of which was working pro-bono on those who still couldn't afford judicial aid. Furthermore, he would be able to pick and choose from a variety of cases for himself and he was hoping for cases that lent themselves a political air. Perhaps one day he'd take the next step and try for a deputy position in politics, but for now it was the common man who needed him. Not a committee or a large populace. He had given his all in defending and liberating the masses. It was time to focus on the individual.

This particular area was all too familiar to him. He felt guided by an inner urge to see a certain other person once again. Becoming familiar with the media once more hadn't been difficult. He still didn't feel as connected as he used to, but he knew that would come with time. He was kept abreast of what was happening within Paris. Enough so that he had come to learn of Feuilly's placement within the new society. Of all the Friends, Feuilly had probably climbed the highest rung on the ladder, but at the same time he risked a higher fall that had little to do with politics and everything to do with morality. It was not a role Enjolras had wanted for his friend, though he heartily acknowledged the fact that Feuilly was capable of performing it and performing well.

He simply didn't like the spillage of blood. He was not a pacifist like Combeferre, but a humanist and a realist when it came to threats and warfare. He had hope that the counter-revolutions cropping up within Paris would be put down quickly and people would give the new regime a chance. So long as they could resist the collateral damage that often sprang up during times of hardship, turmoil, and revolution, Paris would have a chance to be reborn.

Enjolras also wasn't blind to the parallels between France and himself. Both had come through periods of extreme hardship, having to work at rebuilding itself up, and going through an enormous transformation.

He still felt the etchings upon his chest. It was not the phantom pains of the needles that roused him. Rather, it was the knowledge that underneath his clothing lurked the beasts he had tamed and brought to heel. He had come through the fire and ice of hell, and while he was still tunneling his way through the abyss, he could see daylight up ahead. All he had to do was keep moving.

The abstract world would greet him at the other end like an old friend, welcoming back its playmate, but there would be a difference. Transformed as he was, he was a part of the abstract world as well. A culmination of sight and sound, a steady war drum, and part of the thrum that hid underground that kept the pulse of the people alive. He was both a victim and a conqueror, but there was no shame in either of those labels just as there was no true glory. There was only what he assigned to each moniker, for the good or for the bad. Even though he couldn't yet see the view, he knew it was there, a little ways beyond his grasp, but not impossible to reach.

He had many to thank for that.

Feuilly was just one of those many.

Feuilly, who was so surprised to see Enjolras standing on his doorstep that he nearly shut the door in his face. "You're not supposed to see me yet. I made that vow."

But Enjolras' foot was already inside and he leaned against the door, knowing that while Feuilly weighed more than him, Feuilly wouldn't dare risk injury, either physical or otherwise.

"I know you did, but I wanted to see you." Grantaire had reached out to Joly for Enjolras' sake. Feuilly did not hold the same views as Joly, but Enjolras knew he had to be the one to reach out to Feuilly. He was likely one of the few Feuilly would bother to listen to. "I wanted to see how you were doing."

"How am I doing? How do you think I'm doing?" Feuilly asked, though not unkindly. He moved away from the door, allowing Enjolras admittance. "They have me working tirelessly, but the pay is tremendous and I feel like I'm making a difference."

"Hunting down citizens."

"Hunting down those who would harm our regime." Feuilly made a gesture of annoyance. "They aren't willing to peacefully negotiate. I hope you're not going to make a case for them."

"I may have to, provided they have enough of a point to make. I trust you've heard about our firm?" Enjolras glanced around Feuilly's new home. The government preferred their members residing in houses so Feuilly had made sure to find the cheapest, smallest one he could. He had little use for large spaces and his furniture was still sparse. He needed little and liked even less.

"I have. Proud of you. Proud of Courfeyrac too, I guess. I'm sure all of that was his idea." Feuilly directed a frown at Enjolras. "You're not seriously going to defend those sorts, are you?"

"The ones that aren't tried in the higher-up courts, yes, quite possibly. They should have the freedom to speak out, but not act upon it with violence. Peaceful protestations can get more done nowadays than violence. That is how it should be."

"Then perhaps you should start telling them that on streetcorners."

"If I must."

Feuilly scoffed but said nothing to encourage the train of thought. He knew Enjolras wouldn't hesitate if he thought that was the best case scenario for such matters. He enjoyed the mental image that brought. "Do you intend to wear the wig?"

Enjolras' gaze turned to the window. "Again, if I must." The view was that of the street below. Feuilly always did enjoy watching the movement of people rather than taking in any scenic views. "Perhaps that's something else that will change with the new regime. It seems every time there's a political unrest, the fashion changes."

"Courfeyrac must be having a field day."

"I'd defend you as well, Feuilly."

Feuilly expected something like this from Enjolras. He had spoken to his friend a great deal before the barricades, had learned the subtle nuances of Enjolras' speech. Enjolras decried his nobility, but he still walked like a nobleman. That was in his blood and there was little he could do about it. Just as there was little he could do about being a wordsmith at heart. Enjolras, so used to making speeches, to grinding the truth into the marrow of the bones of his listener's, was adept at making short remarks that drew a person's attention away from any sort of subject. It was a move that magicians often did, save they employed the use of their hands rather than tongues.

This could either make talking to Enjolras very frustrating or very poignant. Feuilly was used to it being both ways.

"I know you would. That's just you. And this is just me. I would stand by what I've done in a heartbeat. While I may have shed blood, I do so for the Republic, and I would condemn myself if need be. But I can't. Not yet. This particular bloody world isn't yours anymore. It belongs to all of us. And if we're not willing to get our hands a little dirty, what right have we to be here?"

"This world is for the innocent," Enjolras replied, turning to face him.

"So defend the innocent and keep them safe. I'll focus on keeping all of us, innocent and guilty, safe so that you can hold up your end of the bargain." Feuilly was also used to metaphors, which thankfully weren't being used here, and little pithy remarks. Before the barricades when all the students gathered in the Musain, he used to enjoy hearing the remarks made at the table. It always seemed that each student tried to outdo the other when it came to quotes, remarks both candid and informative, and puns. He rarely joined those conversations but they had always been some of his favorites.

Enjolras merely turned back toward the window, leaving Feuilly feeling a little off-guard. It wasn't like his friend to concede such a discussion. "How is Combeferre treating you these days?" He asked, trying to cajole Enjolras back into conversation.

"Quite well, thank you." Enjolras' tone went a bit softer and the corners of his mouth turned upward a little. "Though it's mainly Grantaire now who sees after me."

"Grantaire? Our Grantaire?"

A sharp nod. "He has a job. He's making something of himself. Not necessarily a Republican, but we can't all be perfect."

Grantaire wasn't the one that Feuilly would have trusted Enjolras' welfare with, but he supposed both Combeferre and Enjolras knew what they were doing. "It's enough that he's a productive member of society now."

"We ought to meet again," Enjolras said, once more taking Feuilly a little off-guard. Political remarks he could handle. But when Enjolras turned suddenly personal, it always threw Feuilly a little.

"All of us?"

"All of us. Somewhere out in the open. We're all busy, but we still make time for one another. You're the only one who hasn't yet joined the rest."

"I, my job keeps me steadily active."

"Your job won't last forever," Enjolras said, quietly. "It won't be long until the attacks cease and people start employing peaceful methods to try to counter whatever mistakes they believe their government is making."

"Is that something you truly see or are you just guessing?"

"I never guess."

"Right." Feuilly was far more inclined to believe Enjolras than he was the paranoid statistics that the secretaries and deputies trusted. Enjolras had proven to be right far more often than he'd been wrong. "A shame you can't work for me."

"Perhaps I will one day."

Feuilly had meant it as a joke. He wondered if Enjolras was continuing in the trend or if it was a serious idea. His mind immediately took wing at the possibilities, but those were far off in the future, and while Enjolras was looking far better than Feuilly had seen him in a long time, he knew more than to overwhelm the man. "We would take over the world, I'm sure."

Enjolras smiled at him, and Feuilly suddenly felt a little uncomfortable standing within his house that his job paid for knowing how he had earned that money. He didn't have regrets before, but Enjolras hadn't been so close, and it had seemed as though his friend was wilting away back then. Now he felt as though he was the one wilting, tilted over by the heaviness of the blood he had shed.

"If ever you need anything, Feuilly, I owe you far more than I can repay."

Feuilly just nodded, not trusting himself enough to speak.

Enjolras left soon after.

The day of the bar exam was not spent dealing with nerves. Enjolras went into it, passed as he knew he would, and went out for dinner with Grantaire who wanted to celebrate. He had tried telling Grantaire that in the scheme of things, this was fairly unimportant.

"I could have passed it before the barricades. I could have passed it after my first year in Sorbonne," he explained, but Grantaire shook his head.

"It's not a celebration of when but of why you chose to take it and pass this time," he said, and Enjolras couldn't argue any further with him.

The dinner passed by smoothly, neither man speaking of politics. They conversed about other matters, either of the bar exam or of the clients Grantaire was taking in with his artistry and their peculiar designs. At the end of the dinner, just as Grantaire was ordering dessert, Enjolras asked the question that had been on his mind but seemed mostly irrelevant.

"Are we on a date?"

It was an innocent question, but Grantaire's immediate blush and stammering made it so Enjolras had to do the ordering to the waitress.

The question was never answered with words but Enjolras did take Grantaire's hand between his own when they neared his apartment, causing Grantaire's heart to pound. He was thankful they were walking in silence as his mouth felt dry and all the words left his brain.

This time, it was Grantaire who felt as though he had come through his own milestone.

A week later, Enjolras already found himself with a desk stacked full of papers, a few circles drawn in the paper for people he had to call in order to bring in a secretary, and a sense of fulfillment that rose every time a client came through his door. Any fears he had on his first day of people recognizing him for certain reasons were diminished gradually. His reputation was that of a freedom-fighter, a rebel that triumphed at the barricades. He had little doubt that Courfeyrac, a fantastic advertiser even on a bad day, was the one to blame for their firm already rising in the ranks.

But it wasn't until a red-headed man of the people came in to see him that Enjolras truly felt as though he had come full-circle.

"I'm tired of the spilling of blood," Feuilly said without any hesitation. He placed a file in front of Enjolras. "That's the contract for my position. If you can find a loophole…"

Enjolras took up the file. "If you're certain this is what you desire for yourself," he started.

"What I desire is a better life. A cleaner life."

Their gazes met and the sight of Feuilly's shoulders relaxing made Enjolras smile. The trust was still there between them, and that's all Enjolras ever needed or wanted from Feuilly. "I think I can help you there. That's starting to become one of my specialties."


	15. Epilogue

Grantaire was getting more and more used to reading his lover's moods. For most of the time, Enjolras was, well, he hesitated to say normal. Average didn't sound much better. All Grantaire knew was how to describe the way he felt throughout, and most of the time, he felt happy. Enjolras was building up quite a reputation for himself, a champion of the poor as the press liked to call him amongst other titles. His interviews were kept short and on business matters entirely, but whenever he spoke, he soared.

Grantaire oftentimes thought of himself as the little lizard on a rock, and sometimes the mighty hawk would take him into its claws and fly through the clouds, and he could experience what life was like with wings.

Then there were times when it felt as though the very foundation of who he was shook as an earthquake went through them. Enjolras didn't so much as go silent, he went away. It was a different sort of withdrawal, as though Enjolras wanted to leave the world and all of its inhabitants behind. There was a remoteness to him at that point and Grantaire fretted because he never knew how to make anything better. If he could find a means, he would either bring Enjolras back from that pit or he would join him within it.

But all he knew to do was to leave Enjolras alone during those time. The slightest touch would be met with even more withdrawal. Sometimes these moods took hours. The longest Grantaire had seen it take place for was a full day. Sometimes he thought a lousy time at work triggered them, sometimes he wondered if he was the instigator. He wasn't sure, and for that matter, sometimes neither was Enjolras.

So Grantaire was taking his time while sitting on their lawn, Enjolras stretched out beside him. While his lover watched the stars, Grantaire took to pulling up pieces of the grass and winding them about his fingers. He wasn't sure how to broach the subject that was on his mind with Enjolras, and part of him didn't wish to take the chance of offending him. They had been together for several months now, and yet…

"We haven't kissed," he said, quietly. Part of him hoped that Enjolras hadn't heard him.

No such luck. Enjolras' gaze darted right to him. "Haven't we? I thought we had." He sat up slowly, brushing off the small bits of grass that clung to his sleeves.

"We haven't. I-" Grantaire fumbled on his words, his fingers clasping together. He couldn't look Enjolras in the eyes. "I wasn't sure if they…if you were ready for that."

His chin was caught between Enjolras' fingers and he allowed his lover to draw his gaze upwards. "I know I tend to pull back from intimacy. There are a few things that I know will still send me reeling back to that time. Like you, I walk on eggshells around my own psyche, and while it's terrible that I can't control that part of myself, there's always something that keeps me going, that allows me the small comfort I need as well as the time and space in order to pull myself back together."

Grantaire's voice was in danger of shaking. "And what's that?"

"You. It has always been you." And because Grantaire was forever in need of being convinced of his own self-worth, Enjolras leaned over and kissed him. The one who needed to get over his shock was Grantaire, and once he did, he clung to Enjolras' shoulders and neck with a tenderness that was indefinable.

And it was Grantaire who had tears in his eyes after they finally parted, and Enjolras whispered, "We must do this more often."


End file.
